


The Right Thing

by olly_octopus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (I won’t), Big angst, Crowley was Raphael before he fell, Fluff, Gabriel isn’t a complete dick, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, I tagged this as minimal angst ahahahahahaha, M/M, Snangst (snake angst), aziraphale just wants to eat cake and avoid drama, but a happy ending so it’s all gucci, but don’t we all, dude im stepping so far out of my comfort zone for this one you might as well call me crowley, for once, gabriel gets utterly plastered lmao, gabriel is an idiot, im gay for Michael and boy oh boy does it show, london pride happens I guess, michael and Crowley are wlw mlm solidarity, not exactly crackfic but parts of it are definitely cracky as fuck, tags will be added if I remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:19:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olly_octopus/pseuds/olly_octopus
Summary: Crowley’s been kind of minding his own business since that whole nasty affair with heaven and hell trying to execute him and his angel. (It’s probably for the best.) That is, until the Archangel Michael arrives on his doorstep with trembling hands and an apology on her lips and yes, alright, you can have the spare bedroom until your head’s in the right place.One by one, all four angels find their way into Crowley’s flat and then, one by one, fall in love with humanity the same way Aziraphale and Crowley did 6000 years ago.(A tale of love, forgiveness, London Pride and the choices one makes. Also, a tale about how the Archangels Michael and Gabriel accidentally became the patron saints of gay culture overnight. Whoops?)





	1. Silence in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> some fanfic: what if michael tried to manipulate Crowley into returning to heaven when she found out he was Raphael before he fell >:(
> 
> Me, so far up Michael’s arse that I can see the sunlight when she opens her mouth: what if Not

All is not well in heaven.

Nothing has been well since the attempted execution of an angel and a demon, holy water and hellfire that didn’t work and sent everyone from all the corners of the universe reeling back into themselves in fear at something new and frightening. And Michael... Michael has been affected. 

Michael has never been affected by anything in her life, and the fact that something has happened to make her hide herself away, shield herself from the Light and spend her days in recluse in an unspecified atom floating around in heaven is... worrying, to say the least. And Gabriel is beginning to get frantic.  
“Do you think she’ll be okay,” murmurs Sandalphon tentatively when he finally finds it within himself to approach Gabriel about the whole affair.  
“I couldn’t say,” replies Gabriel, who has never attempted to comfort anyone in his life, with good reason one might add.

Despite his role in delivering, er, delicate messages to humans, Gabriel has the empathy levels and therapy skills of a particularly uptight centipede. (In fact, a centipede might even do a better job. Plenty of arms to put round shoulders, after all.)

Rumours fly and walls have ears and hundreds of glowing eyes Watch as Gabriel worries himself into a frenzy and Uriel has to excuse herself to make a cup of chamomile tea with two spoons of honey and Michael refuses to make the smallest effort to cooperate with anyone. (The files are getting Untidy.)

“Please speak to me,” pleads Gabriel two weeks into Michael’s monumental shut down. “Or if you won’t speak to me, can you find someone who you will talk to? I don’t like seeing you like this. None of us do.”  
I DON’T WANT TO TALK, GABRIEL, says the Air. I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ANY OF YOU.  
“Don’t fuss over it, Gabe,” drawls an intern angel who used to be a secretary in a past life and who is temporarily working to keep things in order while Michael’s refusing to do anything. “She’s probably on her period or something.”

(If anyone asks where he got to, Gabriel will have to lie and tell them that he just found better accommodation elsewhere. Things Like That don’t do wonderful things to an angel’s image.)

In fact, it takes slightly less than a month for Michael to come anywhere close to acquiescence, when she finally seeks out Sandalphon for a Talk. Sandalphon lasts approximately ten minutes with every ear in heaven eagerly hanging on his every scandalised gasp and mutter of, “Oh, he won’t like that,” before he Emerges from the small, unused utility closet looking hugely embarrassed and even more uncomfortable.  
“What did she say,” hisses thousands of voices in clamouring awe, and Sandalphon shrinks away from the Light.  
“That’s- that’s for me and her to know. And. Er. The other archangels when she wants them to know.”

“Sandalphon,” wheedles Gabriel in little more than unadulterated panic, “the sooner you tell me what she said, the sooner we can sort this out!”  
But the angel just grimaces and shakes his head.  
“I’m extremely sorry, but I can’t tell you. She will, though, when she has a little time to calm down.”

Two more weeks go by before Michael decides it’s time that she consulted Uriel.

(Gabriel is sobbing in a distant corner somewhere.)

And then Uriel comes back looking Serious and when Gabriel opens his mouth near her she fixes him with the sort of look that Queen Boudicca probably had when the Romans made their whole slavery proposal thing and Gabriel closes his mouth and everyone placatedly Goes About Their Business.

Then another two weeks, and three days, and seven hours and fifty five minutes and thirty seven seconds although time is an Illusion but hey ho, and Michael finally tells Gabriel that she wants to speak to him. PRIVATELY, she adds in big, bold, letters at five separate points throughout the heavily passive aggressive letter. It’s underlined three times. Gabriel isn’t stupid enough to argue.

“I’ve been thinking,” she announces the second the door is closed behind them, and Gabriel feels like he’s been sucker punched because oh FUCK.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continues, “about everything. You know? The kind of thinking that made one Fall in the olden days. The kind that made Raphael Fall. He only ever wanted to ask, remember, and where did that get him?”  
Gabriel lets out a pained hiss like he’s been stung.  
“Don’t… don’t mention his name, Michael, we all knew—“  
“Did we, though? I didn’t. I loved him. We all loved him. He was cut from the same cloth as us, brothers and sisters watching over Everything and we. Loved. Him. You loved him, I can remember it all. I remember, Gabriel, and you do too.”

She says his name like it’s a particularly nasty swear word, and Gabriel cowers like a dog being confronted with the harsh palm of a hand.  
“Please, Michael… you know the almighty only wants what’s best for us. She’d never do something that—“  
“Wouldn't she?”  
Gabriel sucks in a breath that hits him like a freight train.  
“Michael, stop! You’ll Fall, you know, you can’t, I can’t—“ he closes his eyes. “I can’t lose you. We lost… Raphael. Then we lost Aziraphale, even if he never Fell. But I’m not going to lose you.”

Michael closes her eyes.

“Believe it or not, we’ve already lost. Do you remember the beginning of the universe? Do you remember being overcome with wonder and love for all the constellations, for God, for each other, and being desperate to spread all the love you had within you to make sure everyone could feel it too?”  
Gabriel doesn’t reply, and Michael opens her eyes.  
“How long has it been since you felt that?”

***

Three hours later, the Archangel Michael has packed her figurative bags and is standing in the middle of a gleaming, white lobby type area with a face set like marble and her hands steady by her sides.

Then, she speaks.

“I’ve come to make a confession.”

She exhales. “I’ve been angry. I’ve been so angry, letting it out in ways that hurt me possibly more than if I’d kept it in. Wrath, as you know, is one of the sins, and I’ve been trying to pray to you, to reach you, in hopes that you’ll be able to help. But you haven’t been there. You haven’t been there for awhile, for any of us.”

It feels like she’s speaking to the space inside a tea chest, with spider’s webs draped across ancient surfaces and her voice echoing back in empty prayer. She tries again.

“I miss Raphael. He was funny, so funny, so good at comforting those in distress and he gave the best hugs you could find anywhere in the universe. You must miss him, too? He was yours, your child, we’re all your children and it feels like you’ve abandoned us and I haven’t heard from you in years. You made him Fall and I know I should be on my way down but I can’t tell if you even care about my existence any more. Is that why I’m not Fallen yet? Because you don’t care enough to push me?”

Her lower lip trembles.

“Is this a test of faith? Because mine’s wavering. I don’t know about the others, but to me it feels like you just created us and set down rules and then waltzed off into a supernova somewhere. You asked us, Lord, right at the beginning. ‘Whose side are you going to be on?’ That was what you said to us, remember? And Lucifer... and Raphael... and everyone... they chose a side. And we chose ours. But then another side was formed, and now I’m looking to you for guidance because I don’t think I quite know what to choose now.” 

There’s silence in heaven, and Michael closes her eyes.

“You asked us to choose. You gave us free will and asked us which path we would take. Now the day has finally come where you have to be prepared for us to answer that question.”

If this is paradise, she decides as she sensible gleam of heaven contorts and melts around her, perhaps paradise isn't all it’s cracked up to be.

***

Crowley’s flat from the outside looks more or less like one would expect a demon-masquerading- as-a-human’s flat to look; dark, imposing and kind of like if a Disney villain had jacked off the whole Big Fancy Mansion affair in favour of living somewhere with a decent WiFi signal.

Michael pauses with her hand mere inches away from the door, a feeling of nausea washing over her like a cold tidal wave. What if he turns her away? What if he simply slams the door in her face? What if he laughs, tells her that she can’t be forgiven and confirms every one of her fears… and what if he doesn’t. What if he welcomes her home, to him, her brother, with a warmth and omnibenevolence that presumably neither have felt since Eden? What if they can patch up old wounds and find repentance and sanctuary in each other?

She knocks, twice, before her feet can decide that actually they’d rather Not Be Here and carry her away from the flat as quickly as possible.

Ten seconds tick by that last an eternity. Then, the door opens to reveal Crowley and anything Michael might have been planning to say to him exits stage left vis à vis the window as relief and pain hit her in equal measures like a slap to the face.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m so, so, sorry for everything.”  
Crowley just stares at her. His hand shakes slightly as it goes to remove the sunglasses from his eyes.  
“Michael,” he murmurs in shameless wonder, and she Breaks.  
“I- I don’t know what to do… I’m scared, Raph- Crowley…. I don’t… I can’t…”  
“You’d better come in,” he mutters, and steps aside for her to stumble through the doorway with all the grace and dignity of a foal taking its first steps.

Michael collapses in a pile on his sofa, immediately taking up the defensive and putting her head on her knees, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she’s scared he’s going to start attacking her.

Crowley doesn’t sit, and instead he just stands, mouth slightly open and one hand tracing a line along his jaw.

“This is quite something, isn’t it,” he says breezily, like Michael’s very presence isn’t making all his reptilian instincts clamour to Claw Its Eyes Out.  
“I… I suppose it is,” replies Michael, raising her head just a little to stare at him. She gives a watery smile. “But I didn’t know who else to go to. And even choosing to go to you, well, you know…”  
“Yes, I do. It’s been a little while since you arrived to assist my execution, eh?”  
Michael’s face twists into one of anguish, and Crowley hastily Changes The Subject.

“Why did you come to me? Why did you come to earth, for that matter? I was under the impression that you were essentially the unofficial brains behind heaven, because goodness knows Gabriel isn’t exactly a strong contender in the intelligence department. What do you want that you can find here?”  
“...I lost something. I lost something, that I think I can only find here.”

Crowley leans forwards, eyes widening.  
“Oh, Mikey, don’t tell me you and a human—“  
“No! No, don’t be utterly ridiculous; I would never… I’m not a complete idiot.”  
“Well, what is it then?”

Michael sits up fully, still not relaxing from her stance that makes her look like someone rammed a stick up her arse.  
“Well. If- if I’m being honest… you.”  
Crowley chokes on nothing. “Me?!”  
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” Michael drops her gaze. “Things haven’t been… well on heaven, lately. Actually, they haven’t been fantastic since you Fell.”  
Crowley winces and shakes his head.  
“Well, it’s not like heaven will have me back, and—“  
“No, no, I know they won’t. That’s why I’m here.”

She gets to her feet.

“I haven’t come because I want to bring you back to heaven. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’d want to subject anyone to that. I’ve come because I miss you, and I miss knowing what it is to have my heart so fully in something that it feels like I’m drowning, and because you give the best hugs in heaven, damnit, and I can’t keep ignoring the feeling that I’ve veered so far off where I wanted to be that soon I’m going to find myself Falling too.”  
Crowley stares at her.  
“Should I say I’m flattered?”  
“You don’t have to say anything. I can leave right now if you want me to.”  
“No, no…” Crowley frowns. “I don’t think that’d achieve anything, now, would it?”  
“I suppose not.”

There’s an awkward silence, and Crowley glances out the window to where the sky’s taking on a dusty pink hue with the first stars of the night to come beginning to shine over London.  
“I made those,” he remarks casually, and Michael nods silently, her eyes reflecting back the starlight as she, too, watches the evening sky change subtly over his shoulder.  
“I remember.”  
“Hm. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

Crowley moves away from the window and pushes a hand through his hair.  
“Do you plan on staying here?”  
“Well, if you don’t have any objections.”  
Crowley snorts. “Objections? You mean, apart from the fact that I don’t know whether or not at any point you’ll turn around with a super soaker full of holy water and turn me into a little puddle of demon?”  
Michael opens her mouth to protest, but he shakes his head.  
“Calm down. You can have the spare room, but if it’s all the same to you I’ll be putting a few sigils around the place. You know. Just in case. Not that I don’t trust you or anything, but I literally cannot trust you.”

Michael can’t say she doesn’t blame him.

“That’s alright,” she says, trying to maintain her composure.  
“Have you ever slept before?”  
Michael shakes her head. “Nowhere to sleep in heaven, and I’ve never been on earth long enough to stay overnight.”  
“There’s no harm in learning. Aziraphale sleeps in there, mostly, so you know it’s good quality. Probably a bit eighteenth century Germanic for you, though, but perhaps you like that kind of thing.”  
“I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”

Michael decides to ignore the blatant flaunting of the prize that is Aziraphale having, in essence, stolen him from heaven, because if Michael had her way she’d be kicking him out with steel capped boots after that one time he accidentally fell into her neatly organised stack of paperwork, sending it flying everywhere. They’re probably meant for each other.

Crowley sighs and stretches.  
“Your room is just down the corridor, second on the right. I know it looks different from the rest of the flat; it’s because I’ve never used it in my life. Sweet dreams.”

Michael nods, and is about to turn and leave the conversation there before something makes her pause. Crowley picks up on this at once.  
“Is there a problem?”  
She rocks back and forth for a moment on her heels, seeming to weigh up her options. Crowley watches her warily.  
“Seriously, Michael, if you have any problem— oh.”

Then she’s in his arms, eyes squeezed tightly shut and head resting against his chest. He doesn’t smell like he did before Eden, and he doesn’t look like it either, and for someone’s sake he doesn’t even have the same name, but something in it feels… right. Like he’s been the last piece of a jigsaw she’s hasn’t realised has been missing for over 6000 years.  
“Thank you,” she whispers, and Crowley’s arms close around her in a bittersweet embrace. “For everything.”

And then, just as quickly as she was there, she’s gone.


	2. Grow Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my arm hurts and michael sheens going absolutely fucking feral on Twitter from wot ive seen lmao

If all was not well in heaven before, then all is, to most intents and purposes, crashing down around the remaining angels like a burning bookshop.

“Is this how it ends?” Gabriel asks from his place in a Sensible Chair With Wheels On It. Sandalphon doesn’t answer. Gabriel takes this as his cue to continue with all guns blazing.  
“It’s just, like, I would have thought she’d have more respect for her duties as an archangel, you know? Since, er, the lord chose her. And everything. To do the archangeling business. And she’s good at it! But nooo, she has to go back to earth or whatever to go sit in Raphael’s lap. I think it’s selfish.”  
“I think you’re being rather selfish,” Sandalphon replies nonchalantly, squinting down his nose at Gabriel, whose jaw drops.

“Do you— I am— w-what?!”  
“You’re being selfish,” repeats Sandalphon. “I think you just don’t like that she’s finally thinking for herself and making sensible decisions that will ultimately make her happy. I think you’re being extremely rude about Michael just trying to make herself happy, after everything she’s done for heaven. You just can’t stand the thought that perhaps you’re in the wrong.”

You see, this is the point at which Gabriel would very much like to sneer at Sandalphon’s preposterous suggestions, and tell him that it’s about time that he went to see a specialist to check out his head. 

Gabriel is, after all, considerably less scared of Sandalphon than he is of Michael (although he doesn’t think he can name anyone that isn’t at least moderately scared of Michael), and lately life has been Hard and he’d rather like to take someone else down a peg to make himself feel better.

However, he knows he’d be lying.

And so, he makes an unattractive sound that goes something like, ‘mhph’, and slides down his chair like a sulky child being confronted with string beans. Sandalphon looks him over critically, sighs, and gets to his feet.  
“I’m going to see if I can find Michael.”  
“She’s not here anymore, dumbass,” Gabriel replies dully.   
“No, not here.”  
Gabriel slowly lifts his head up so that he can stare at Sandalphon in horror.  
“You can’t possibly be insinuating…”  
“Why not? Why can’t I? It’s not like you need me around here, and quite frankly if you’re not going to make any effort to check that she at least arrived safely then I think I will.”

Gabriel grunts and turns away.  
“Fine. See if I care.”

Gabriel cares Immensely, but admitting that would be admitting defeat. Gabriel will more readily admit that he’s actually tried reading pornography than he will admit that he’s wrong. And, worse, Sandalphon Knows This. (It’s actually relatively common knowledge if you’ve been anywhere near heaven for more than thirty seconds but shhh let’s not upset him.)

Within the hour, Sandalphon is gone, and Gabriel’s feeling somehow more alone than he’s ever felt before.

“Uriel,” he tries pitifully, and then she’s There, looking at him wearily like a tired mother looks at a misbehaving child.  
“Yes, Gabriel?”  
“I… I don’t know what to do.”  
Uriel pulls up a chair that wasn’t there before, and sits down to look at him with dark eyes that seem to stare into his soul.  
“Surely, you can’t say that you didn't expect this? After centuries of demurely getting on with assigned tasks and hands primly held in front of the body like servants waiting for their next orders? You really didn’t expect any of the angels to rebel? How self centred are you, really?”

Gabriel gapes at her.

“Well! I’ve never wanted to rebel, I’ve always been—“  
“You can’t live your life predicting other people’s actions and predetermining their views by what exists in your own tiny little bubble. If you honestly judge the world around you only by what you have experienced, no shit people are going to turn away from you. It’s the equivalent of saying there’s nothing wrong with the Nazis because Hitler has a sweet spot for you and you two make sausage rolls together on the weekends.”

Uriel leans in closer and Gabriel looks away from her.  
“Do you know something? I think Michael and Sandalphon are right. I think Aziraphale and Raphael were right. I don’t think we’re doing the right thing anymore in heaven.” Uriel speaks with the frostiness of a teacher disappointed in their student. “And if we’re on the subject of doing the right thing? I think Raphael was about as close as they come, and look what happened to him.”  
“You can’t possibly know—“  
“No, I can’t!” Uriel snaps at Gabriel. “But here’s the thing, you can’t either.”

She leans back, and looks at him a little sadly, like she’s putting him.  
“When was the last time the Almighty spoke to you? Was it the last time She spoke to me, too? Six thousand years ago? I don’t know how you can even pretend to know what the right thing is, anymore. Get over yourself.”

For the first time in centuries, speech is coming hard to Gabriel.

“Hgdghjd,” he says uselessly as Uriel gets to her feet.  
“Goodbye,” she sighs, and he scrambles up after her.  
“No! You can’t leave me! What will I do without you?”  
She looks him up and down. “Grow better?”

***

Crowley has been having a strange sort of day.

Firstly, Michael came downstairs at about five in the morning in a set of grey silk pyjamas looking for entertainment, and a bleary eyed Crowley had to direct her to BBC iPlayer where she then proceeded to watch all eight episodes of Gentleman Jack back to back, taking careful notes in a neat and swirly hand on some yellow sticky notes all the while. (When Crowley checks back in on her later, he finds the sticky notes completely ransacked and each titled, ‘Important Human Culture: Replicate?’ He decides not to confront her.)

Then he introduces her to the concept of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon which she catches onto extremely quickly after a generous amount of suspicious poking at the microwave.   
(“And you're sure this can heat things?”  
“Fairly sure, yes.”)

Then he gets utterly thrashed at monopoly before hurriedly asking Michael if she’s familiar with the concept of Prosecco before she can spot scrabble, and from there they’re mostly fine until about five in the afternoon when he gets a knock at the door.

“Pray that’s it’s a Jehovah’s Witness,” he remarks cheerfully to Michael, who he physically cannot wait to introduce to John and Brenda who’ve accidentally started coming on a weekly basis thanks to his Powers Of Persuasion.

However, when he gets to the door he’s faced not with an elderly couple who are a little too invested in Noah’s ark for his liking, but with his second archangel in a week.   
“Oh my fuck, they’re breeding,” he blurts out before he can help himself, and Sandalphon furrows his brow in what would have been disapproval if he’d been able to understand what Crowley meant. As it is, he just coughs and peers over Crowley’s shoulder expectantly.

“Is, er, Michael here?”  
“I’ll warn you, she’s only allowed to come out and play if her floor’s completely clear and if she’s fed the cats.”  
The sheer comedic genius is wasted on Sandalphon, however, and Crowley sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.  
“I’m kidding. We don’t have any cats. And, uh, as for Michael we do actually have one of those but I’ll really need to talk to her before I let you in. Check to see if she’s in a good place for visitors and all that good stuff. Alright?”

He’s about to turn and do Exactly That when Sandalphon coughs again.  
“Er, yes?”

Sandalphon fidgets for a second, then grasps Crowley’s hand tightly in his own in an unnecessarily firm handshake.  
“Thank you,” he mumbles. “For looking after Michael for us. And everything that came before that. You’re a good lad.”  
“No problem,” replies Crowley, who hasn’t quite let the words sink in yet. “It was my pleasure.”

And then another half hour flounces by with Sandalphon and Michael making eye contact for ten seconds (which Crowley supposes is practically pornographic by heaven’s standards) and then Discovering Jenga (“and NO miracles, remember; or it isn’t fun!”) and Crowley drinks half a bottle of wine straight from the bottle in the kitchen and then there’s Another knock at the door.

“Yeah, lads, don’t worry, I’ll take it,” snipes Crowley sulkily as he slouches his way to the door. “What the neighbors must think is happening I don’t know…”

“Crowley,” Uriel addresses him professionally, like they’re meeting for the first time in an office somewhere dreadful.  
“Uriel,” Crowley addresses her like a sister. (She is.) “And what a family reunion this is, eh? Just need the Great Mother and the Infernal Father down here with fruit scones. Half expecting Gabriel down here, next; although I suppose that might be bumping up the old expectations a little too high.”

Uriel doesn’t make any visible sign that she agrees or disagrees, but her jaw does stiffen and she does draw herself up a little straighter.  
“Don’t talk about him like that.”  
“Why not? You wouldn’t be here if everything was fine and dandy up in the clouds, as it were. It’s not like you to be down. It’s not like any of you to be down, and yet there’s two others trying pretzels for the first time in the middle of my living room. So, since Michael came because she can’t stand it up there, and Sandalphon supposedly came to babysit her, that only leaves one archangel unaccounted for. So, tell me, Uriel,” he tilts his head. “Why come to my side? Come to taste the apple for yourself, see if it was worth it?”

There’s a silence, the tension stretching between them like elastic ready to snap and Crowley grins triumphantly.

“See, you’re just too proud to—“  
“I came because you all needed me. Don’t even pretend you can look after yourself, because we both know your competency level just about stretches to being able to open a bag of pretzels to pass around the circle and you’re in no fit state to look after the idiot that is Sandalphon and the emotional wreck that is Michael all by yourself.”

Crowley chances a glance back into the living room, where Michael looks about as emotionally wrecked as a spoiled house cat being offered a sun drenched lap to perch in.  
“Right,” he says, not believing her. “And that’s all, is it?”

Uriel glares at him.   
“I get the feeling you don’t believe me.”  
“Yep, that’ll be the feeling that’s right.”  
She pinches the bridge of her nose as Crowley looks on expectantly. “Well?”  
“I assume you’ve been told by now that heaven is in about as good of a place as Germany was after the second world war?”  
“Or words to that effect, yes.”  
“And that Gabriel’s being a conceited and childish twat about the whole thing?”  
Crowley chokes on nothing for the second time in two days, and Uriel doesn’t bother giving him time to produce a reasonably sensible answer.

“Now you do, anyway. And it’s very important to me that you realise that Michael and him are roughly on the same wavelength as far as mental breakdowns go, except his hasn’t quite had time to sink in through his fat head and so he’s being a whiny toddler about the whole thing. When it does hit, I can only assume he’ll come down here himself or have the worst meltdown since Trump being questioned about sexual assault, and I’m currently suffering crippling amounts of guilt and concern for him because all he wants to do is make sure everyone’s happy and safe and he can barely even account for himself. I’m terrified for him, but right now Michael is far more of a priority.”  
“...Fair enough.”

Crowley takes in Uriel’s appearance.

“You angels have astonishingly good ways of hiding your emotions,” he remarks dryly and Uriel snorts.  
“You demons are too emotional.”  
“Point taken and duly noted.”

He leans against the doorframe as she makes to go inside, effectively blocking her path. Uriel narrows her eyes.  
“Want to see where that’ll get you?”  
Crowley hastily clarifies, “Oh, er, I just… can I have a hug?”  
Uriel assesses him coolly.  
“No,” she says, and waltzes in past him. (If Crowley swaggers, Uriel Definitely waltzes. At least now Crowley knows they share a minimum of one trait between them. Oh joy.)

When all three angels are safely playing jenga and Not Talking About Their Feelings, Crowley decides it’s as good a time as any to call Aziraphale. The phone rings twice, then he picks up.  
“Hello! How are you? How’s life in Crowley’s world?”  
“Dodgy,” he replies truthfully. “Hey, do you want to guess who’s sitting in my flat right now? I’ll give you a clue; there’s three of them and potentially one more to come.”

Even by Aziraphale’s standards, this one shouldn’t be too difficult, thinks Crowley. He has, of course, underestimated Aziraphale’s astounding talent that is being so completely Not observational that it might take him three years to identify a spoon’s maker even if it had it engraved in the back.

“The teletubbies,” guesses Aziraphale.  
“No,” says Crowley.

The phone conversation lasts in total about ten minutes, with Aziraphale tentatively naming things that come in fours and Crowley getting gradually more and more frustrated. His top ten are:

The Beatles  
The Them  
Four snakes  
The Royal Family  
The cast of the Lorax  
Queen  
One Direction (minus Zayn)  
The four horsemen of the apocalypse   
Quadruplets  
Not four dogs

Eventually Crowley just sighs heavily, coos down the phone at Aziraphale until he gets the hint and Shuts Up and leans on the desk.  
“Just… be here in ten minutes, alright? And if you have any paracetamol, er, bring that too because I’m beginning to get a headache. Ciao.” Then, he hangs up the phone and wanders off to go bully his rubber plant because someone needs to be feeling the emotional toll of entertaining guests and he doesn’t like it when it’s him.

“Strap in, lads,” he mutters as the leaves begin to tremble upon his arrival. “I have a feeling the week’s only going to get weirder from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give me validation I’m literally overjoyed that chapter one took off so well, let’s keep it up lads xx


	3. All About Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This is an angst chapter and we are not sullying it with implied masturbation” -me, to the love of my life, light of my existence, fiancée of my dreams, upon asking her what Sandalphon could have walked in on Michael doing
> 
> See also, “if [Gabriel, Loud: you can’t POSSIBLY like it here; he is the ENEMY
> 
> Uriel, marching up and slapping him across the face: GABRIEL with all due respect shut your FUCK] isn’t a direct quote, I’m suing” -said love of my life, light of my existence, fiancée of my dreams

Crowley meets Aziraphale in the doorway before he can even raise his hand to knock. It’s not unusual for him to do this, but what is unusual is the fact that he looks so uncomfortable and flustered that it crosses Aziraphale’s mind for just a second that it might not be too out of the question to assume he’s caught him in the middle of some kind of scandalous rendezvous with, perhaps, an MP or someone similarly unsuitable. (He tries hard not to be too jealous.)

“Angel,” Crowley giggles, a little out of breath. “Angel, you won’t believe who’s playing Guess Who in my front room.”  
Aziraphale, somewhat relieved that Crowley is not in fact shacking up with Boris Johnson, looks at him a little confused. “Is this the three-and-one-to-come thing you were talking about?”  
“Yeah, that’s the one, er, are you feeling particularly steady this fine afternoon?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You. Um. Might want to be steady for this one.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Oh, Crowley, for heaven’s sake just let me in! After all we’ve been through together lately, I don’t think there’s anything that’ll surprise me any more.”

Aziraphale is wrong, obviously.

We knew that, and so did Crowley, and actually most of the angels present (as Crowley had thoughtfully taken the liberty of warning them of their visitor beforehand) but Aziraphale didn’t. So you can imagine the shock he gets upon walking into his best friend’s flat to find a host of heavenly gits all gathered round a board game with similar looks of concentration and focus on their faces.  
“Good lord,” he says.  
“Blasphemy,” announces Uriel idly without looking up from patiently explaining the rules to Sandalphon over his shoulder. Aziraphale turns to Crowley in shock.

“My dear, not to be rude or anything, but have you completely lost your mind?”  
Crowley pulls a face.  
“Only moderately. And besides, they haven’t killed me yet.”  
“Yet,” echoes Uriel. “Depends if he tries to do anything to us first.”  
“Oh. Wonderful. I feel so much safer, Crowley, don’t you?”

Crowley looks guilty.

“Well, angel, it’s not like they’re wrong?”  
Aziraphale fixes him with a cold, hard stare. “I will be in my room if you need me.”  
“Er, about that…”  
“I’m in the eighteenth century Germanic room, if that’s what you mean,” interrupts Michael as Crowley flaps uselessly. “But you could always share. I’m only really in there during the nights; there’s not much to do during the day.”  
“You’re too kind,” Aziraphale sighs, seeming to realise that this isn’t a situation he can realistically win in. “I suppose I’ll just make myself a cup of—“  
“CROWLEY!!”

And then, before anyone can do anything or make any sort of move in attempting to rectify the situation, the door to Crowley’s flat bangs open and who else but the Archangel Fucking Gabriel marches in and immediately slams Crowley to the wall by his shoulders.  
“Hgrh,” says Crowley.  
“FOUL DEMON, RELEASE YOUR HOLD ON THE ARCHANGELS RIGHT NOW OR THERE, THERE WILL BE TROUBLE!!”  
“Releasssse your hold on my bloody shouldersss,” hisses Crowley, fighting to wriggle free from Gabriel’s grip to no avail.

“I know this is your fault,” spits Gabriel, eyes drilling into Crowley and lips curled in an ugly grimace on his usually handsome face. “I just know you did this, damnit; you set them free from this, this delusion at once or—“  
“Or what,” says Uriel from behind him, and Gabriel spins on the spot to see both Uriel and Aziraphale essentially Squaring The Fuck Up. “What will you do, Gabriel? Hurt him? Kill him? What do you think that will achieve?”

“Uriel,” breathes Gabriel, a guilty look sliding onto his face. “Um. I thought you might be, er, you know…”  
“Tied up in a basement? Being tortured for information? Please, Gabriel, if he even attempted to do anything to me or anyone here, he’d be hanging by his ankles from the ceiling with Michael’s sword up his—“  
“Yes, thank you, we get the picture,” interrupts Aziraphale hastily. Gabriel loosens his hold on Crowley a little, but Uriel does not relax from her stance.

“Let him go.”  
“How do I know he won’t-“  
“Whatever is going through your mind that he might do to you, you can easily multiply that by ten in regards to me and the difference is, I will actually do it.”

Crowley drops to the floor and instantly scrambles over to sit by Aziraphale’s feet. He mumbles something about staying close to the ground, but no one’s listening as all attention is focused on Gabriel and Uriel.

“You’re such a child, I tried to warn you and you can’t say I didn’t. I told you, didn’t I? This is the best place for us, for,” she leans in close enough that the others can’t hear, “for Michael. Because like it or not, times are changing and there aren’t any more writings to fall back on and how do we know this isn’t where we’re meant to be? We don’t. We don’t know, Gabriel, and you’re just as lost as me.”  
“I’m not lost, we aren’t losing, I’m special and important and—“

The slap reverberates through Crowley’s flat and Aziraphale automatically draws himself closer to Crowley as Michael jumps and Sandalphon instinctively grasps her hand. Gabriel goes stumbling backwards, shocked, fingers flying to his own face as though he can’t quite believe anyone would dare touch him.

“With all due respect, I think you need to shut the fuck up,” says Uriel coolly. It’s extremely difficult to pick up on the way her voice wavers slightly, and luckily for everyone Gabriel doesn’t.  
“Well. Um. Yes, alright then,” says Gabriel under his breath. “I think I know where I stand. I’d better leave, then.”  
“You don’t need to,” pipes up Sandalphon. “Plenty of spare rooms to be had, after all. Crowley did wonders with mine, the miracles he can do…”

Everyone turns to stare at him before Crowley hums softly.

“Yeah, you tosser, I’ll even give you a box of earl grey tea if I’m feeling particularly generous. Jewel tones and all that kinda stuff. Might do you some good to see what you’re missing out on, and why Uriel knows her onions.”  
“I really don’t think—“  
“What a wonderful idea, Crowley,” agrees Michael firmly, hand still being held subconsciously by Sandalphon. “And then, he’ll be able to see that you aren’t hurting us or anything, and we could even introduce him to monopoly.”

Gabriel hesitates. His violet eyes flicker down to Sandalphon’s hand resting protectively over Michael’s.

“Perhaps… perhaps you’re right.”  
“Of course I’m right,” says Michael.  
“Of course she’s right,” Crowley chips in as moral support.

Uriel steps back primly, brushes herself down and straightens herself up all whilst Gabriel looks like he’s just been caught in a tornado.  
“Crowley, where will my friend find his room?”  
Crowley thinks for a moment then sighs and clicks his fingers. “Just down the corridor right in front of you, the last one on the left. It’s the one with a name card on the door that says ‘wanker’ in special gold printing.”  
“...Thanks.”  
“No problem. If you need directions to the bathroom, just let me know.”

Gabriel looks at Crowley like he’s something nasty he wants to wipe off his pristinely polished shoe.  
“I do not sully my celestial temple with—“  
“Alright, yep, we’ve gotten the message. You know where to find me if you need me, though.”

“He’s not quite as bad as I had remembered,” remarks Crowley casually later to Uriel as they’re cleaning the kitchen (which Uriel has discovered is rather therapeutic).  
“No, I don’t expect he will have been. Last time you saw him was during the Great War, no? Can’t get much worse than that.”  
“What? Oh, er, yes.” (Crowley has a habit of Forgetting that he’s not meant to mention the execution that wasn’t.) “All he seems to want to do is make sure you're all alright,” he points out, working at the oven top. “Just seems to want to take care of you, s’all.”

“It doesn’t really matter what his intentions are if he isn’t getting the desired result, to be honest. I can appreciate that he wants to protect us, but he’s stuck in the past. He’s so invested in his bloody duty of keeping everything running smoothly and making sure that we’re abiding by the rules that he’s all but lost any common sense- not that he had much anyway- and other angels’ respect. Did you know Sandalphon found Michael, sword in hand, five months ago and talking about how she might just walk into hell and see what happened? She was bad, really bad, and she’s been that way since the Armageddon that didn’t happen. And Gabriel just didn’t notice.”

Crowley doesn’t speak. If he speaks, he knows it’ll hurt.

“Gabriel,” continues Uriel, “can only find reason in things that were Written or set in stone to the point where it’d be foolish to argue, and anything new or unknown he just refuses to work with. There’s no grey areas to him, only black and white, only right and wrong. To him, Aziraphale abandoned heaven because some snake was a good shag. He needs to learn how to see others points of view, and how to listen to opinions that aren’t his.”

“Glad we’re agreed on something,” replies Crowley, going back to scrubbing at the oven with renewed vigour. Then, he stops. “Hang on, what was that about a snake being a good shag?”  
Uriel ignores his comment. “Less talking, more cleaning. There’s mug stains that require your attention.”  
“Fair enough.”

***

“Demons of hell,” Beelzebub tries again. “Are you all with me?”

There’s a general pissed off murmur that passes throughout the thronging crowds of filth and sin, and Beelzebub turns to Dagon helplessly.  
“Why can’t they understand that this is our chance? All of the archangels have abandoned their stations and the rest of heaven is falling apart! We can go up now and completely destroy the place!”  
“It’s quite risky, you have to agree,” Dagon points out. “How do we know this isn’t a trap? That we won’t get up there and there’ll be a bunch of angels wielding flaming bloody swords and we’ll all be sliced into ribbons?”

Beelzebub throws themself back in the throne like a stroppy toddler.  
“So what do you think? What’s your plan off attack, if I’m just an idiot who doesn’t think things through?”  
“I never said that, Lord, that’s you putting words in my mouth.”  
“I’ll put something in your mouth in a minute,” grumbles Beelzebub. Dagon seems to think for a moment.

“Well, since you are the infernal equivalent of Gabriel—“  
“Ugh, never say that again.”  
“—I just meant that, you know, you’re basically the one in charge around here, technically it could be considered treason and or desertion if they don’t immediately drop and agree to all of your demands. And, if you want morale raising, you could always tell them they’ll have the servants of the Lord at their beck and call to do as they like with.”  
“Careful now. We can’t have them gettin’ too close. Don’t need another Crowley and Aziraphale, do we?” Beelzebub shudders. “Can’t have Hastur in the lap of some principality or other, can we?”

“What,” says Hastur, who Has Not been listening and who only tuned in to Radio Takeover De La Heaven when he heard his name.  
“Don’t worry about it,” sighs Beelzebub. “It was quite rude.”  
“Oh. Alright.”

And, with that, the remaining Duke Of Hell goes back to picking at his nails with a pocket knife.

“Must be nice, being that stupid. I wonder if that’s our problem? They’re just too stupid to realise the sheer genius of what is essentially gatecrashing a party where the hosts have fucked off to go cry and make out in the bathroom, respectively. I think it’s all rather fantastic.”  
“It is, Lord,” Dagon assures Beelzebub. “And you might be right. In fact, I think you probably are. You are the smartest here, after all…”  
“Not that it would be hard. Kind of like being the most cheerful person at a funeral.”  
“Still. An achievement.”

Beelzebub sighs heavily and turns away.

The problem with being in charge (and rest assured we are using that phrase in the broadest way possible) of an army of demons who’ve just been forced to psych themselves up for an apocalypse, promptly been told said apocalypse is a No Go and have had to significantly readjust their energies in a very short space of time, straight from Psycho Angel Murderers to Normal Bored Demons— is that they aren’t very happy when plans are changed for the third time in less than a year. Come to think of it, they probably aren’t too happy about being confronted with angels either.

But… well, it’s all about Duty, isn’t it? From start to finish, from the moment they were formed from the Light up to now, all they’ve been given as guidelines is a broad set of rules and vague instructions to do their duties in their respective roles. And a war upon heaven just seems… right.

Never mind that every single one of the archangels seems to have gotten it into their thick skulls that Earth Is The Place To Be for no good reason, and that everything is crumbling down around those who Rely on rules for guidance and now Beelzebub of all people is the only sodding supernatural being around with any sort of authority.

Absolute fucks sake.

“I don’t like this game,” they announce sulkily, and Dagon snorts.  
“Funnily enough, I don’t either. Shall we jack it off and call it a day?”  
“No, no, we can’t. Tell ‘em… tell ‘em we’ll have an all you can eat buffet afterwards or something. Anything. I refuse to give up this easily.”  
Dagon huffs. “Whatever you say.”  
“Lord?”  
“Lord. Whatever you say, Lord.”  
“Better.”  
It’s small and it’s petty but it makes Beelzebub feel moderately better and that’s what really counts here, isn’t it?

“DEMONS OF HELL,” Dagon screams and, yep, that’s gotten their attention for sure.  
“Demons of hell,” they continue, normally. “We are gathered here today to discuss the proposed take-over of heaven now that our favourite archangels are out of the way. You may notice that, whilst we cannot be sure of their whereabouts on Earth, we can be sure that they will not return while we are there.”  
“How?” Shrieks a lower status demon from the crowd, and there’s a buzz of agreement from the hall at large.  
“You will just have to trust us,” says Dagon stiffly, and there’s an answering jeer.  
“Trust? We can’t trust demons! We don’t trust each other, and we certainly don’t trust you- especially after the last change in plans!”

But Beelzebub has had quite enough, and they rise to their feet as the crowds begin to get louder and louder, screaming insults and taunts from the floor.

“Enough! All of you! Sit down, Dagon, I will take it from here.”  
Dagon nods and passes the dwindling power to Beelzebub with somewhat of a relieved diplomacy.

“Look at you. Slimy, shrivelled remainders of what could have once been beautiful. You’ve had your dignity ripped from you by those angels for years, stamped to the ground like the slugs that they think you are. Do you really want to be treated like that forever? Shit under the heels of those who think they’re better than us?”  
There’s a corresponding growl, and Beelzebub feels the power shift as the realisation of what the proposal would actually mean begins to sink in. They smile.  
“You know that’s not what you’re going to be forever. You know that times have to change, and is this not the perfect time? With Gabriel gone, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon— all absent from heaven— could we not take back what is rightfully ours? First heaven. Then Earth. Then, eventually, everyone in all three plains will see us as their leaders. You will be kings in the new world!”

A cheer rises from the masses, and Beelzebub retakes their seat with a self satisfied grin as the rallies begin.  
“How did you do that,” says Dagon in a fair amount of surprise.  
“They just needed a little encouragement, was all,” replies Beelzebub smugly.

Yes, soon everything and everyone will fall into their hands.

And then, Gabriel and all the others will know what it feels like to be worthless and they will Fall, and then who will be left but the wicked? It’s a fine plan, and Beelzebub’s very proud of it, but it might be nice if they felt a little bit more like it wasn’t just carrying out another duty. Perhaps, in the end, it will all work out for the better and they’ll feel some sense of victory and triumph, a Job Well Done.

...Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a tad longer than expected, you see, i Don’t Like deadlines/doing the things I actually like doing but hey ho life’s short, eat ass, suck a dick, sell drugs
> 
> Tumblr is @/ollyoctopus  
> Brand new side blog that I encourage you to send asks to and to bully is @/gayforthearchangelmichael


	4. Time and Space and Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lads guess who reared their disgusting head on schedule enjoy the chapter

The nice old lady that lives a floor below Mr. Anthony J Crowley has taken quite the shine to (“Uhh… Gabriel- um, Gabe… Reole?”), which is lucky because he is definitely something of an acquired taste.

The four times she’s seen him in the last three days have been so lovely and unique that she finds herself almost hoping for him to accidentally leave his jacket or something so that perhaps he can stay a little longer for a cup of tea or a similar beverage. Not in a romantic way, because let’s face it here; he’s clearly somewhere in his forties and she has a good thirty five years or so on him and also? He just seems like a nice young man who, once upon a time, her daughter might have brought home for dinner and cake. Perhaps even to stay in the guest room overnight, although we don’t ask questions about that.

Actually, any time she’s offered him a drink or a biscuit, he makes the most peculiar face and mutters something about ‘being pure’ and ‘not subjecting himself’. She supposes he must be one of these new vegans or coeliacs. 

In fact, he reminds her somewhat of her autistic grandson who likes Lego just a little bit too much and awkwardly refuses to go anywhere near fruitcake because of the texture and whom she adores more than life itself. She doesn’t want to make assumptions or anything, but it would be so nice for her grandson to meet him one day and for them to have a Talk, but who knows. It might be a little like putting two stranger cats in a room together and politely asking them to get along.

But he is so sweet, isn’t he?

He downright refuses to call her ‘Valerie’, instead opting for her full title of ‘Mrs Smales’ (which she has never liked but will make an exception for in his case) and speaks like he’s only just figured out how language works. An American, too; with the most charming accent and the sort of honesty she wouldn’t get from anyone else in her life. It’s quite refreshing.

“Would you like to come in?” She says, the first time they meet. Gabe only peers round the doorway and makes a face.  
“I don’t think your couch would be very comfortable.”  
Couch, she remembers thinking fondly. Over in America, she’s seen, they have those special massage chairs and sofas made by professional abstract artists where anything you feel like can be bought on a whim.   
“Well, I think they are,” she had said, and watched as Gabe’s face took on a pained expression.   
“Yes, well perhaps you are mistaken. Do you have any books on how to sleep? Short ones? That Uriel would read to me without complaining?”  
“Uriel’s a lovely name.”

She has a meditation book, and he says that will do, and then they had both moved on with their lives until three hours later when he returns looking starstruck and questioning her about nirvana.

Yes, she decides, he is adorable— if a little eccentric. But aren’t we all?

In the end, she decides she’ll nip upstairs and ask Mr Crowley whether his charming friend has a particular favourite pastry and whether he would appreciate her making one for him. Anthony opens the door like he’s expecting the devil himself to be stood outside, and relaxes somewhat when he sees her.

“Ah, Valerie. How can I help you? Have we bothered you with the noise? I have told the others to keep it down, er, but they’re a tad… unused to staying somewhere with neighbours.”  
“Oh, no, it’s quite alright, no bother at all. Mr Reole has been coming down to my flat for some help with meditation and so on, but he never seems to stay. And I think he’s such a nice young man and I’d like to know if there’s any treats he likes that I could make that could start a friendship! Are there any cakes or biscuits he’s fond of?”

Anthony’s face goes blank, then he cocks his head to one side.   
“...Mr Reole.”  
“Yes, that’s right. Gabe?”  
Anthony’s face clears up, and he smiles.  
“Oh! Yes, sorry, er. Brain working on autopilot. Treats, you say?”  
“Yes; he won’t come in and drink tea with me when I ask. I thought he might have a food allergy or something similar…?”  
Anthony sighs. “No, no, it’s nothing like that, he’s just… picky. I’ll have a chat with him about not being rude.”  
“Oh, it’s really no issue.”

Valerie shuffles awkwardly in the doorway.  
“So, is he, um, your new young man? Is Mr Fell out of the picture?”  
Anthony makes a funny noise in the back of his throat and turns red, then white, then green in close succession as Valerie looks on in concern.  
“Er, no. No, he’s nothing like that. Mr Fell is, heh, not out of the picture at all; he’ll still be over for his annual history discussion and tea drinkers night. Don’t worry about that. I’m just… looking after Gabe. Reole. Er.”

Valerie brightens up.  
“Oh! That’s fine, then. Just wondering.”  
“As far as treats go, you really don’t have to bother yourself at Gabe’s expense. Although, I don’t think an… angel cake would be too adventurous for him.”  
Valerie’s face breaks into a smile.  
“Wonderful! I’ll see what I can do. Thank you!”

And, with that, she’s off.

Anthony is a nice boy, and she’s glad his partner and him are still very much still going strong. Mr Fell likes to talk about him a lot, and old books, and how to properly make scones and it’d be an awful shame if he stopped frequenting the flats. And Anthony’s ‘looking after’ Gabe, too, which just about solidifies it in her eyes as far as any similarities to her grandson go. So that’s nice, too.

Now, if only she can find her mother’s old angel cake recipe…

***

“I’m going to put my head in an oven.”  
“No you're not. Who would I talk to then?”

Crowley grunts and puts his head in Aziraphale’s lap, who starts absent-mindedly playing with his hair.  
“Valerie- you know Val, from downstairs? She thinks I’m shagging Gabriel.”  
“Does she? What makes you say that?”  
“Asked me if he was my new young man. I mean, honestly, what does she think my taste is like in men? Borderline offensive, in my opinion.”  
Aziraphale hums thoughtfully.  
“Better than her being homophobic, as sadly too many of the older generation are. Does that mean she doesn’t still think we’re dating?”

There’s a snort from Aziraphale’s lap.  
“Hah. Nope, she asked about that one, too. She’s quite sweet, really. Shame she’s a tad senile these days.”  
Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly, fingers carding carefully through Crowley’s flame-red hair. “You shouldn’t say that. She’s a dear.”  
“You think everyone’s a dear.”  
“That’s not true.”  
“Alright, everyone apart from any authority figure in any of the three planes. Better?”  
“...Slightly.”

There’s a comfortable silence, then, “But we’re not dating?”  
Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it again. “No, Aziraphale,” he says softly and without any real conviction. “No, we’re not, unless something happened that I don’t remember.”

The shroud of silence falls again, slightly less comfortable.

“Well,” begins Aziraphale, fingers still in Crowley’s hair. “I was thinking—“  
“So you two ARE having sex!”

Crowley jumps and falls out of Aziraphale’s lap and onto the carpet.  
“Oof,” he says, and Aziraphale gets to his feet looking hugely flustered to face a breathless and pink-in-the-face Gabriel who’s just appeared in the doorway.  
“What do you mean?”  
“You two! Laying, like that! On top of each other! You’re having sex! I knew it!”  
“Are we,” mumbles Crowley from the floor. “Angel, why didn’t you tell me? I’d have made Gabe fuck off to the Sainsbury’s on a fake errand or something.”

Gabriel laughs wildly.  
“Hah! I bet you would’ve; you didn’t want me to know that that’s the reason you betrayed heaven— nothing to do with wanting peace and everything to do with wanting to keep your boyfriend safe!”  
“Don’t take this personally, Gabe,” pipes up Crowley, who is still laying on the floor. “But if I could get away with killing you I fuckin’ would. Do you even actually know what sex is.”  
Gabriel bristles. “My name is not- Gabe.”  
“Val seems to think it is. You know Val? From the floor below? Who you’ve seemed to develop a habit of being rude to whenever she asks you in for tea? Would it really hurt to go inside and try it?”

“What’s going on? Aziraphale? Gabriel?”  
Because now, as though it couldn’t get any better, who else but Michael appears in the doorway looking completely exhausted.  
“Crowley,” adds Crowley sulkily.  
“And Crowley,” Michael corrects herself. Gabriel spins to face her.

“Michael! Thank goodness you’re here!”  
“Wha-?”  
“This- this demon!! Thinks he’s clever! Thinks he can convince me that he didn’t lead Aziraphale into temptation and force him to stay on earth through his demonic wiles and scheming! Seduce him with offers of sexual favours- and then lead him away from the Light with his evil deeds!”  
“You and Shadwell would get along so well,” remarks Aziraphale in wonder.

“They’re not having sex,” says Uriel dully, and why is Uriel in the room, what the fuck, how did she get there? “Have you ever shut up in your life, Gabriel?”  
“Excellent question,” replies Sandalphon nonchalantly.  
“Thanks guys,” says Crowley. “I love this fun activity where everyone stands in my bedroom and calmly discusses my sex life.”  
“Or lack of,” points out Uriel.  
“Or lack of,” agrees Crowley. “Good point.”

Uriel shoots Crowley a look that screams “told you so”, but simply raises one eyebrow and grabs Gabriel by the wrist.  
“How about we all calm down and Gabriel comes with me to figure out how the washing machine works? Hm?”  
There’s a sort of communal nodding and Yes Uriel It’s Probably For The Best Thank You For De-escalating This Situation We’re All Uncomfortable In.

Then, off she goes, Archangel Gabriel in tow.

It’s been maybe three or four days since a demon’s flat suddenly found itself infested with angels and Crowley’s pretty sure the houseplants have gotten whiplash from the change in how they’re treated. Aziraphale is now here constantly, like it wasn’t bad enough that he already came over about three times a week (at least), and along with Michael’s soothing words and Sandalphon’s delighted reverence they have never been more confused in their lives as to how to behave.

And as for the hustle and bustle of the flat? 

The sheer, stark difference from the unloved monochromes and impractical furniture to Michael dragging down her duvet from her room whenever she’s in the mood to see what the others are up to or look for Viennese whirls? Uriel’s incessant polishing and snappy remarks directed at a Gabriel who Cannot Read and Needs Her To Help (which she actually does with a lot less reluctance than she ever lets on)? Sandalphon’s keenness to learn and discover, even if it’s just finding out how the windows open? 

It’s so jarringly different and almost a U-turn from how Crowley’s learnt to live that he supposes it really isn’t that different from the world’s most distrustful high school reunion with old friends who definitely talked shit about you afterwards. It’s a dodgy metaphor, but there isn’t really any good way to describe it. Crowley can’t think of it like “the old days”, whatever the hell that means, because in the old days they were… close. Happy. Family. Running and laughing and talking in hushed whispers about what God could be planning for them next, eyes bright and wings not burnt in the blazing sulphurs of hell. And now?

Now, it’s considered disrespectful to speculate about what She could have in mind, ineffable, too great to even fathom in one’s wildest dreams. They certainly don’t run or laugh any more; those days vanished with war and Falling and those that were left were completely abandoned and left to grieve their losses with little more than their own memories and the sickening realisation that any of them could be next.

And yet… 

And yet.

They’re changed.

Since coming to stay with Crowley, the differences in them shine through like gold under dirt, things that he hasn’t seen since before he Fell and that presumably Aziraphale has never seen before.

Sandalphon, excited about everything and desperate to visit every novelty shop that passes his radar whenever he’s unsupervised and left to step outside the fiat; when he’s not carefully watching over Michael he’s to be found, beyond ecstatic, examining the air vents and delightedly questioning Crowley right left and centre about where exactly the air comes from. (Crowley only lies when he genuinely doesn’t know the right answer, to his credit.)

Uriel, who learned to be tough in heaven and build up walls so high around her that on a particularly bad day they were probably tangible, softening around the edges and nodding her head in time with love songs on the radio like they speak to her in some forgotten language. She’s regaining her respect for Gabriel, too, regardless of how slow the process might be, and it’s clear that he appreciates it in his own special way. (And she was also right about how Crowley needed her to cope, but we don’t talk about that.)

Michael, whose eyes have for sure gained a little more brightness than when she first arrived on Crowley’s doorstep, and who has completely jacked off the suit in favour of a dark waistcoat over the top of a loose, white shirt that Crowley can’t help but wish he could pull off as well as she does. (He blames Anne Lister.) She likes spending time reading, or watching new shows on Netflix, or sampling ice cream that Crowley picks up especially for her because he knows full well that she’d never ask. (Her favourite so far is raspberry ripple.)

And then there’s Gabriel.

Ah, sweet Gabriel.

Gabriel is... a work in progress, and that’s putting it rather nicely.

For one thing, he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of rom-coms because when Crowley thought a bit of telly might keep him busy, all that ended up happening was that Gabriel rewound it every ten seconds to ask in confusion why they didn’t just talk it over.  
“Because then it would be over in five minutes,” Crowley points out.  
“Better that than all this unnecessary confusion! What message is that sending out? Everything will be fine if you lie and consistently get involved in increasingly more and more unlikely circumstances that give you the opportunity to drop hints about your feelings?”  
“...Not a bad point.”

Essentially, if life is not A to B to C then Gabriel doesn’t want it. He can’t seem to grasp the idea that part of being human is having the freedom to change one’s mind and go back on one’s word and Crowley is sure that if he ever found out about soap operas or the Kardashians he’d physically cry.

Deep down- and exactly how deep down Crowley isn’t sure- Gabriel is genuinely good natured and protective and has the capacity to care immensely for others, but at the moment there just seems to be no budging him from his cemented beliefs that demon=bad and heaven=good and humanity= absolutely fucking pointless.

He wants to care for Michael and the others and it shows— but he just doesn’t know how. He knows Michael’s hurting, and he knows everybody is feeling the strain from it in every way, but he can’t figure out how to help for love nor money. Hellfire? Fine. Saving her from a malevolent demon? Gucci. But the mere fact that there’s nothing outwardly wrong with her or that nobody is physically attacking her is just too much for him to wrap his head around.

“Surely there is some remedy,” he hisses to Crowley, who he’s still endlessly suspicious of.  
“Give her time and space and ice cream, Gabe; I appreciate that you care but just sometimes you have to accept that some things can’t be solved in a hurry.”

And then that’s Another Thing because Crowley is Good At This and he won’t explain why and Gabriel is certain there’s nothing more frustrating in the world than a demon— a fallen angel, no less— being able to care for Michael better than he can. But if it’s time and space that she needs, he can give that. If ice cream will help (although human food makes no sense to him whatsoever) then he can give that too.

He’ll give whatever he can, even if he doesn’t know why he’s giving it, because he promised to protect them and he’s going to uphold his promise to the best of his ability.   
“Never broken a promise yet,” he murmurs to himself in his room at eleven at night, eyes lingering on the box of earl grey tea Crowley left there for him. Why does living like a human have to be so bloody complicated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im honestly shocked no one’s really talked about the similarities Gabriel (and particularly fanon Gabriel) has to people with autism and so i am bringing it up and you may fight me


	5. Heaven Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your friendly reminder that if half the fandom is struggling to assign a gender to the lord of darkness, it’s not that fucking hard to use they/them pronouns

The Quartermaster Angel, known to his friends as Jim, is extremely proud of his facial hair.

It’s taken him two millennia and a great deal of specific instructions to barbers to get it exactly like this, and he plans on keeping it this way until either kingdom come or until he finds something better. (Highly unlikely.) And now, much to his disgust and disdain and other words beginning with D, he finds said facial hair being put under serious threat due to the presence of a rusty sword up his nose. Specifically, Lord Beelzebub’s sword. 

“Surrender your fucking armies,” they instruct the Quartermaster in a tone like they’re not expecting any fighting back whatsoever. This isn’t an unfair assumption, since he has absolutely no intention to, and also because the rest of Hell is standing behind Beelzebub holding an array of interesting and yet simultaneously nausea inducing weaponry with rather unpleasant expressions stretched across their disgusting faces.  
“And what makes you think I’ll do that?” He tries, hoping it comes out as calm and collected, but actually only really achieving the effect of sounding like a sullen three year old thinking he knows better than mummy.

Beelzebub rightly ignores his tone, and instead gets a little more up close and personal as some of the demons behind them begin to snigger.

“Alright then, I’ll tell you what’ll happen if you do surrender heaven: I won’t cut off your toes one by one, cook them in bacon like pigs in blankets, feed them to Hastur and them roast the rest of you off in a hellfire pizza oven.”  
“With a garnish,” adds Dagon helpfully.  
“With a garnish,” agrees Beelzebub. Jim giggles nervously.  
“Aha… haha… yes. You’re, um, you’re very funny— Lord Beelzebub… er, um, shall I ask my armies to stand down?”

Beelzebub grins.  
“See, you aren’t as stupid as you look.”

Jim’s been having a really, really hard time in general lately.

For starters, there was that whole messy business where legitimately everyone in heaven bar the only person that needed to know knew that Michael had depression- and then it all really came to a head when she went into recluse and Oh Dear Gabriel Has A Responsibility and he’s not taking it well. Oh boy, Jim sure does Love having to explain to new angels that no, the files don’t always look that untidy, and no, the Famous Archangel Gabriel doesn’t usually behave Like That.

Then Michael only went and joined the fallen angel Raphael down on Earth and yeah cheers Michael, *thanks* for that; that’s the angel equivalent of The Talk— (“So we’re allowed to consort with demons?” “NO.” “Michael does it—!” “You’re not the Archangel Michael. She’s doing it for a good reason.”) It’s not a lie.

Then off Sandalphon fucks, then Uriel, then after Gabriel’s spent an entire afternoon being Loud and Panicky about it it’s his turn to turn helplessly to Jim with a look of pathetic hope and so Jim Sighs and is placed temporarily in charge of heaven until someone of a higher authority shows their smug little face by which time it'll have all died down. It’s all quite unprofessional, really.

Don’t even get Jim started on how the apocalypse had no sooner been raring to go at the click of the Antichrist’s fingers, only for him to decide he was Gucci thank you so very much and bring the whole thing grinding to an abrupt halt. It sure had been fun trying to get the armies of heaven to stand down, millions of pissed off angels all screeching for an explanation and (haha) Gabriel the Crap Leader in charge of giving them one.

No, it hasn’t been a fun time at all and it absolutely does not help that the entirety of heaven is on the verge of a collective breakdown. At least, it had been on the verge. Now, it’s just a collective breakdown.

Except the Problem with trying to direct angels is that, for beings with traditionally no free will (although that all changed since the Great War between heaven and hell), they sure do have minds of their own and every single one thinks they know better than you.

“Angels, for goodness sake, can we all please calm down?”  
“We might die! We might die here and you’re just casually walking around? What kind of a leader are you?”  
“Oh, I’m sorry Hadraniel, was that you offering to take my place?”  
Hadraniel shockingly doesn’t answer, so Jim ignores her and continues with his fruitless plea to the masses.  
“Come on, now; I don’t know what they’re planning—“ What sounds like something made of glass smashes in the distance and Jim winces. “...Like I said. I don’t know what they’re planning, and it’s probably in our best interests to lay low and wait until everything dies down and they get bored. There really isn’t that much to do up here, and—“

“GOOD MORNING, FUCKERS,” screeches a demon, kicking in the door holding blazing nunchucks and what looks like the current record for the world’s most ominous grin. “ARE WE ALL READY TO GET FUCKED UP ON THIS FINE THURSDAY AFTERNOON?!”  
“Baal,” sighs Jim with a sinking feeling that this just isn’t his century. “I thought you’d had enough of heaven after we beat you last time. Still got that dodgy knee we gave you?”  
Baal, who famously gave up his title as one of the kings of hell after discovering the responsibilities that it held in favour of just generally being a dickhead and twatting around hell like the demonic equivalent of an entitled white teenage boy with a trust fund, sneers down his nose at the angels.  
“Funny enough, I do. Who wants to be the first to get their fucking kneecaps removed with hellfire nunchucks? Don’t all shout at once.”

They Don’t.

Baal lifts one eyebrow and fixes Jim with a leer that a young lady might receive in a particularly uncouth pub for having the nerve to own breasts.  
“Nice. Right this way, petal. Don’t bother about bringing anyone else; if they try to escape we’ll pick ‘em off like ants.” Somewhere at the back, someone starts to cry and Jim feels his chest ache with empathy and an instinctive desire to comfort those in need. Baal, who has lost the privilege of empathy since his Fall, just laughs cruelly.  
“Poor baby. Don’t worry, doll, it’ll all be over soon enough.” Then, he jerks his head in the direction of the door and gleefully leads a dubious Jim out into chaos.

***

Beelzebub is beginning to seriously think that they have the tolerance levels for bullshit of a three year old on crack. 

Okay, so taking over heaven is fun in theory, but in practise it’s a painful amount of patiently (a rather strong adjective for what Beelzebub’s doing) explaining to demons who haven’t been out of hell since they Fell in the first place that they aren’t actually going to murder angels, just put the fear of Satan into them that they might. 

“I thought you said we were going to take our revenge,” points out some nameless demon of a lower rank who’s looking dejectedly at a rusted katana.  
“And we are,” says Beelzebub.   
“But not killing angels?”  
“Not killing angels.”  
The demon huffs and flings his katana to the ground. “What kind of an attack is this if there’s no actual killing?”  
“The kind,” explains Beelzebub slowly, “where we scare the everloving shit out of heaven, get the angels to be our slaves and then take over the world with the combined forces of heaven and hell.”  
“Stupid idea,” says the demon under his breath, and Beelzebub just sighs and decides not to engage with it any more.

The issue with killing angels is that, however much they try to rationalise it in their head, there’s absolutely no fucking point and anyway Beelzebub isn’t sure they can be arsed with the paperwork. Angels suck!! The sky is blue!! Crowley walks like a common whore!! What else is new? Doesn’t mean you have to go around burning them with hellfire all the time. Perhaps they think you suck, and then what’s to stop them shoving you into a font filled with holy water? No, what goes around comes around and if there’s anything they don’t need it’s another Great War.

Besides, it was about time heaven got renovated.

Beelzebub turns and makes their way to Gabriel’s desk, the only place in heaven that is not either on fire or smashed to smithereens (upon strict instructions) and runs a finger along the gleaming surface.  
“Bastard.”

Fuck Gabriel lives, decides Beelzebub with a finality about it.

Everyone can make all the song and dance they like about Aziraphale and Crowley’s little love affair or whatever it was, but at the end of the day who’s really at fault?

If Gabriel had cared a little more about what happened to his angels— who HE was meant to be in charge of— and if heaven hadn’t been so stifling— and if What Was Written didn’t wrap itself twice around one’s chest and squeeze as tightly as possible like the absolute fucking burden it is— and if there was more room to just breathe— then maybe it wouldn’t have turned out like this. Maybe heaven wouldn’t be crumbling around them like a child’s sandcastle. And maybe, just maybe, everyone would be a whole lot bloody happier.

“Maybe your archangels wouldn’t be suicidal if you removed your head from your arse,” says Beelzebub out loud because for fuck’s sake gossip spreads fast and heaven can’t keep everything under wraps like they so desperately want to. And, if we’re on the subject of angels you can’t keep secret, Michael’s about the worst choice you could go for. Really, Gabriel? One of your most important archangels, your very source of communication with hell? And you don’t expect anyone to realise? Oh, okay. Sure. Maybe we are all as stupid as you seem to think we are.

Beelzebub rounds the desk and pulls out Gabriel’s black, shiny chair with hands that are only slightly shaking.

Then, they sit.

It doesn’t fit them right, but they never expected it to. It’s too big, far too big and it’s cold from a lack of use. But it’s Gabriel’s chair, and now it belongs to the Prince of Hell and what the fuck is Gabriel going to do about it?

All around them, heaven burns. Everyone’s safe, of course, because Dagon’s in charge of putting all the angels in a safe place where the fire can’t reach them. The aim is to scare, to wreak havoc, to get it all out of the demons’ systems before anyone can get hurt— not death. Death’s Gabriel’s work, and Beelzebub is not going to sink to his level no matter what anyone throws at him. You have your area of jurisdiction, and Beelzebub has theirs. (No matter how incompetent Gabriel is.) And this, this is not it.

Heaven’s game is to strategically put down those who go against the regime or who don’t blindly follow orders without pulling off the muzzle, and they’re good at it. Hell’s game is to get creative and spread fear and panic to the point where nothing even has to be done to get a message across, and they’re fantastic at it.

Really, it’s the difference between “I will kill you,” and “You’d better sleep with one eye open and carry your fucking will with you wherever you go in case you need to make any last minute alterations”. If one incites enough fear and paranoia within a victim, they end up not needing to go through with anything at all. The victim’s mind will do far worse than Hell ever could.

No, nobody needs to die in order to make some angels figuratively shit themselves. A bit of imagination is fine, and Beelzebub can do that with moderate competency.

Even still…

Suddenly, Beelzebub’s train of thought is rudely brought screeching to an abrupt halt by the appearance of Baal with the Quartermaster Angel following meekly in his wake. Baal’s a twat, and if he had his way then he’d currently be sat in Gabriel’s chair himself with a scantily dressed angel on either knee. (Genders don’t matter. Angels rarely have them.)  
“Lord,” he calls triumphantly. “Brought you back your special helper.” He says ‘special helper’ in the same way someone might say ‘prostitute’, and the connotations don’t go over Beelzebub or the angel’s heads. The angel grimaces and doesn’t look Beelzebub in the eye as Baal sashays off.

“Ignore him,” sighs Beelzebub. “He’s just been incessantly horny since 75BC when he got off with a royal through sheer luck and is convinced that everyone in the universe wants to suck him off.”  
“Ah,” mumbles the angel with the stupid facial hair. “That’s a bit of a relief.”  
“No, don’t get me wrong, life’s still going to fucking suck for a while but my armies know if they do anything along the lines of rape then I’m going to smite them myself. There are some things even Hell doesn’t forgive.”

Just to make sure the angel doesn’t get too comfortable, Beelzebub unsheathes a sword from the air, and their prisoner shrinks back warily.

“Now, do you know where Gabriel’s gone? Answer me truthfully, or I’ll know you’re lying.”  
“...Yes. Why, may I ask?”  
“None of your business. I suppose he’s off carrying out God’s word somewhere.”  
The angel snorts. “Chance would be a fine thing.”  
“What do you mean?”  
The angel looks suddenly guilty, and Beelzebub growls, “Answer me!”  
“I just… Well, you must know… I thought everyone…”  
“Tell me what you’re talking about, damnit!”  
“We haven’t heard from God since Eden. We’ve been relying on what was Written since the world began. And, since it was meant to end, there’s been no more writings and we’re all a bit lost up here.”

Beelzebub just stares at him in shock. The angel looks gravely back.  
“You mean… you mean there’s nothing to fall back on? At all?”  
“Well, there’s the Metatron, but he’s a little useless really. We’ve almost entirely given up on using him altogether.”

Beelzebub’s eyes don’t come away from the hunched figure, and the angel drops his gaze awkwardly.  
“I’m… Hm. Yes. You didn’t know.”

Talk about God’s lost children, thinks Beelzebub as their eyes pass over the pathetic looking angel in front of them. Perhaps we’re not as different after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s LEO SEASON and my birthday is in TWO WEEKS and i am ZAZZED


	6. Like Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight trigger warning for homophobic language and a bit of rape threat, although nothing that’s ever physical. 
> 
> also whoops i disassociated for a hot second and now it’s been a tad of time since last update,,,, but hey ho here’s a chapter lol

“Pride? Pride for what?”  
“Being something other than heterosexual and cisgender,” explains Crowley. “Or LGBTQ+, if you want to do the whole acronym business.”  
“I don’t,” adds Aziraphale. “Labels are for humans. And Crowley when he’s in the mood.”  
“Love me some gender,” says Crowley.

Gabriel pouts and tentatively stirs the cup of tea Aziraphale made for him.  
“And there’s a whole month for this? And parades? Why?”  
“Oh, I can answer this one,” pipes up Michael happily, who has been inhaling Gentleman Jack content like oxygen lately. Once she’s explained, with diagrams and a suitable amount of passionate hand gestures, Gabriel’s teacup finds itself about half full without him knowing how it’s happened, and Aziraphale makes to cheerfully refill it. Gabriel frowns.  
“So, people have been actively excluding members of the LGBT community since the Bible was first translated into English? Because some other humans wrote down that it was unnatural? But that’s preposterous.”

“He gets it,” announces Crowley triumphantly. “Congrats!”  
“How did I not get informed of this?”  
“Head’s up your arse?” Crowley guesses, and Sandalphon snorts.

Aziraphale and Crowley have been consistently turning up to the London Pride Parade every year since 1972, and don’t intend to break that habit this year just because of the arrival of some angels. Michael is all for it, and by extension Sandalphon, but Crowley figures Uriel and Gabriel might be a little more of a challenge to persuade to turn up. 

As it turns out, Gabriel’s only problem is actually understanding why it’s happening in the first place (because his beautiful head is full of fucking rocks) and Uriel’s issue is with Michael’s mental health being able to withstand being surrounded by crowds of shouting people for potentially several hours. (Crowley pulls her aside during lunch and they have a Short Discussion on how potentially beneficial it could be and also a couple of safety precautions Just In Case. Essentially, Michael is being well cared for and so all is Gucci.)

There’s a massive drama over who is wearing what, because the angels have Seen Photos of what can be worn and no, Gabriel, [that would be inappropriate](https://gayprideshop.co.uk/products/gay-pride-rainbow-metallic-hot-pants?utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=google&utm_campaign=Google%20Shopping&gclid=CjwKCAjw7anqBRALEiwAgvGgmwV8SFpmjLqfgEGUgi_x7ccN8WigqNPHThrgsxoaTEpeLSccbIRbpRoCWowQAvD_BwE) and why doesn’t Crowley go and take you through some fashion that you’ll be comfortable in? And then Uriel opts to stick with some cuffed jeans and a Sensible T-Shirt with a healthy amount of glitter on her arms and face and hey, does anyone know where Michael is?

They find Michael five minutes later, standing in silent wonder at her reflection in Crowley’s mirror.   
“Is this... Alright?”  
“Ma’am,” says Crowley, in the same tone one uses when being proposed to, “I think ‘alright’ is a fairly massive understatement.”  
Michael, who can work miracles like it’s absolutely nothing, has outdone herself. After taking what looks like a liberal helping of inspiration from Gentleman Jack (which she is definitely NOT obsessed with, just observing closely), she has finally assembled an outfit that would make Anne Lister herself proud.

With the loose, white shirt and sleeves rolled up the elbows, she’s added a navy blue tight waistcoat and paired it with black trousers in such a way creating an effect that would make the most hardcore heterosexual girl do a triple take.  
“Damn, Michael, you didn’t have to go so hard,” grins Crowley. Nobody else seems to have the capacity to speak. “If you were planning to pick up the chicks, you’re certainly going about it the right way.”  
“Would you say that’d be a good idea?”  
Gabriel chokes on nothing and Sandalphon laughs delightedly.  
“It’d be a… story, certainly!”

Michael smiles and Concentrates and then there’s a box of multicoloured pin badges laying open on her bed. Crowley gives a shout of glee.  
“Mikey! Nice touch, my dude!”

Michael chooses to ignore the massive amounts of disrespect, and simply adjusts her collar as Gabriel and Sandalphon step over to Investigate.

“I think there’s a couple of most things in there. Pansexual, bisexual, lesbian, non binary and so on. I didn’t know what anyone wanted to identify as, so…”  
“I’d forgotten how thoughtful you are,” remarks Crowley, cheerfully picking out genderfluid and pansexual badges. “How nice to be back.”

After some confusion and patient explanations, Gabriel eventually goes for a demisexual badge, Uriel for asexual and Sandalphon for just a plain and simple rainbow after going through a massive crisis because they all ‘look so pretty, how could he possibly choose’! Michael opts for a lesbian badge and Aziraphale nonbinary and gay because Aziraphale does what Aziraphale likes and so everybody is perfectly happy within reason.

At least, that’s how it’s happening right up until they step foot into the thronging jubilance of thousands of people screaming with a furious pride ripped from throats until they’re sore, and suddenly everything is a tad Loud.  
“Are you okay?” Crowley whispers in Michael’s ear, and she nods wordlessly, eyes reflecting back the colours like they reflected Crowley’s stars the first night she came to stay with him.   
“I’ll never be over this,” announces Aziraphale, hand a little shaky as it rests over his heart, and the others can’t help but agree. “I’ll never be over this, no matter how many times I see it. Can’t you feel it, too?”

The others are speechless. There seems to be nothing to say.

(Well, most of the others, anyway.)

“Dude, they’ve got some of those fuckin, uh, you know the dudes in wings ‘n shit? Go around— oh my gosh, they’re called something hysterical…”  
Aziraphale gives Crowley a strong side-eye.  
“....Gay-briels?”

Ignoring Gabriel losing his shit in slow motion behind them, Sandalphon turns to Aziraphale curiously.  
“What are those, then?”  
“Picture slim, cisgender white guys wearing hotpants and angel wings,” cuts in Crowley before Aziraphale can reply. “It’s quite funny, really.”  
“It’s a means of self-expression,” Aziraphale corrects him firmly. “It’s a way to celebrate pride.”  
“It’s certainly a way to celebrate something,” says Crowley cheerfully, eyeing up a tall blonde wearing more or less nothing other than sparkly budgie smugglers and a pair of colossal angel wings. The man catches his eye and grins.

“Anyway, there’s lots to see,” pipes up Aziraphale loudly, trying to move the conversation on. “Floats, dancing, and the surrounding bars and cafes will serve themed refreshments a lot of the time. Live music, theatre performances, too, I think. Just stay safe, honestly.”  
“Plenty of afterparties to be had, if all else fails,” points out Crowley happily.

“I don’t think I understand,” says Gabriel as Sandalphon takes Michael’s hand and leads her off into the crowds, somewhere in the direction of where they can hear distant music playing.   
“What don’t you understand?”  
“Well. These are the same humans who are cruel and create wars and discriminate, and- why are they… why are they doing this? I didn’t know they were capable of it. Such love… I never thought it possible for humans.”

Crowley looks at him for a long moment, then sighs and cocks his head to one side. He squints. Gabriel Perspires slightly. Then, he seems to come to a conclusion.

“Hold my hand.”  
“Hold your WHAT.”  
Crowley scoffs and holds out his hand.  
“Come on, Gabriel, I know you’re an idiot, but not that much.”  
Gabriel stares at Crowley’s hand like he’s concealed a feral rodent in it, but eventually seems to decide that he’ll take the risk and cautiously slides his hand into Crowley’s.  
“Now. Close your eyes,” says the demon, “and just feel.”

And he does.

Gabriel Feels, hard, and the emotion hits him like a truck slamming into him at full force and he gasps. It’s been years since he spent more than five minutes on Earth, never mind spending it in such a place— and he can’t honestly say he’s ever felt such pure, raw, unadulterated emotion since… well. Ever. Constellations pass before his mind’s eye, supernovas forming and crashing into flames and then an overwhelming, breathtaking amount of love fills him from head to toe, blazing like wildfire and yet simultaneously cradling him within itself with the tenderness of a mother. He Feels, so thoroughly and unashamedly, to the point where he feels like he couldn’t be more vulnerable if Beelzebub was standing on his throat in stiletto heels, and then Crowley lets go of his hand and it all slides away as quickly as it had come.

“...You alright, there?”  
Gabriel only registers that he’s crying when he realises he can’t stop, and Crowley’s arms around him are a bittersweet blessing that he can’t find it within himself to resist.  
“Yes… yes, I…” 

He’s so caught up in himself, it doesn’t even cross his mind to feel embarrassed as his gaze meets Crowley’s.  
“It felt like… it felt like Her.”  
Crowley’s face creases in pain, but he appears to push the emotion to one side.  
“I know. I know, Gabriel.”  
“It felt like, like the old days, with you, me, Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon, Lucifer, everyone— it felt like… it felt like home. God, Raphael, oh God how I miss it…”  
“Raphael? What are you talking about?” Aziraphale’s voice comes from just behind Crowley, and Gabriel feels Crowley stiffen.  
“...Whoops.”

However, before Aziraphale can open his mouth to say anything, the distant (but approaching) sound of Sandalphon’s slightly panicked voice makes all four of them look up. Sure enough, there he is, weaving his way through the masses of rainbow spangled people with anxious “Excuse me’s,” and “Please let me through’s,” until he finally catches sight of his companions and gives a weak smile.

All eyes, as one, drop to the figure in his arms.

“Goodness,” breathes Aziraphale as Uriel makes a beeline for Sandalphon, eyes set and the air around her seeming to glow from the raw amounts of energy she exudes. Gabriel’s not far behind her, and then Crowley’s just There beside them both as Sandalphon comes to a halt and begins to carefully lower Michael towards the ground.  
“Give her here,” murmurs Gabriel, and he hoists the unconscious angel up into his arms. When he straightens up, Michael’s head comes to rest on his chest and he gazes down at her in worry.

“What happened,” demands Uriel with such a ferocity that Sandalphon shrinks back in fear.  
“Nothing! I mean, she just, went! One minute, she was just looking around and then the next she was on the ground! A group of very nice girls came over to see if she needed insulin or an epipen or anything, very concerned, but—“  
“She’s still breathing,” interrupts Gabriel, the relief bleeding into his voice. “She’s breathing, she’s going to be okay.”  
“Thank someone,” mutters Uriel. “I told you, I told you all she wasn’t ready to come out…”  
“Heh,” says Crowley, but the grin slides off his face as he catches sight of the others’ stares. “Sorry lads,” he says. “I’ll shut up.”

Michael looks uncharacteristically fragile in Gabriel’s arms, like she might break at any moment. It doesn’t for a moment look malicious, or predatory, just tender and caring in the way that a family should be. Crowley catches Sandalphon’s eye, and knows they’re both thinking the same thing. Sandalphon’s the first to look away, a little abashed.

“I think it’s time,” announces Gabriel, glancing around at the group. “That we got Michael back to the flat, and got her some rest.”  
“He’s learning,” sighs Uriel. “Took him long enough.”

They’re just bringing Michael within roughly three-hundred feet of Crowley’s flat when all is brought to a halt by the sounds of loud, drunk men shouting at the parade passing them by.  
“Oh. Yeah, I should’ve warned you,” says Crowley quietly, trying to move them on. “There’ll be a few of these dickheads, some people just can’t let others be happy… I’ll handle it, don’t you worry—“

Alas, it’s too late, and Gabriel’s already making his way over.

“Yeah, don’t fucking listen to me,” mutters Crowley, dropping his arms. “When do we listen to Crowley? Where does that get us? Hah, when has that worked out? Surely not during the apocalypse, when—“  
“Shut up,” hisses Uriel, grabs his wrist and drags him in the direction of where Gabriel is currently having a very loud, very heated conversation with the drunk men whilst still cradling Michael close to his body in a protective manner. Idiot. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

Once they get close enough to hear what they’re actually saying, it becomes quite clear that what Gabriel does in fact think he’s doing is converting them. You know, in typical ‘my name is Gabriel and je suis Big Important angel and you Will Listen’ type fashion.  
“Legitimate moron,” remarks Crowley in disbelief. “They’re not the type to be reasoned with, surely even he can see that!”  
“One would certainly think so,” agrees Uriel, frowning. 

“Come onnn,” slurs the rattiest looking of the men, holding a Budweiser in his hand and squinting up at Gabriel. “Come’n, pretty boy, you’re not here for theeese people! Y’r a, a straight dude! Not like these, these fagsss.”  
It’s pretty clear that Gabriel doesn’t understand what the man is saying, but nevertheless he does seem to realise that it’s rude.  
“These are good people,” he states firmly. “And this is supposed to be a celebration, and you are harassing them. I saw you, yelling at those two girls that were walking past; you were yelling horrible things!”

The men laugh, obviously (and predictably) not taking him seriously at all. There’s now a small group beginning to gather at the edges, watching on in a mixture of concern and curiosity to see how this interaction plays out.

“Wha? Can’t- can’t give a lass com- compliments theeese daysss? Nice tits, ‘er, shouldn’t b’ wasted on birds. Needs a man to show ‘er whass really good.”  
Gabriel gives him a filthy look.  
“You are the worst sorts of humans. You are a disgrace to humanity, the good, loving nature of humanity— and I think you should all go home right now before something Really Bad happens to you.”  
Crowley shoots a worried glance at Uriel, who isn’t looking at him. She seems to be transfixed in her own horror.

One of the men gets to his feet with some difficulty, swaying and holding onto a wall for support. He leers at Gabriel, who steadfastly holds his ground.  
“M’be am wrong. Per- pr’aps you’re one of these, these men who d’n care. M’be you like it up the arse, yeah, m’be you like to get fucked ‘till y’ can’t walk, ‘n then I’d knife y’ up, see?” He brandishes a pocket knife, and Gabriel holds Michael a little closer, if that were possible. The man doesn’t back down.

The crowd’s beginning to get noisy, now, shouting at the man with some trying the break through the ranks to intervene. But no one can. It’s almost like there’s an invisible force field there, preventing anyone else from getting hurt… but that would be impossible.

“I’d kill y’,” repeats the man as his friends sprawl against the wall. “I’d rape ye’, kill ye’, scratch up that pretty face o’ y’rs an’ leave ye’ t’die on the streets. I’d do it—” and he brandishes the knife again, “—and I’d enjoy it. Faggot.”  
“An’ then you’d go te’ hell!” Proclaims his friend gleefully. “Hell, where all the poofs like you go! And your girlfriend, she’d, she’d be with ya.” He gestures to the unconscious Michael. “An’ the world would be a bett’r place!”

“Hell?” Gabriel takes a step forwards, with a calm exterior, but Crowley knows there’s blistering rage laying just beneath the skin. Gabriel, the protector, the big brother, one of the most powerful in heaven, royally pissed off. “Oh, gentlemen, you don’t know anything about Hell. At least, not yet.”  
To the unobservant eye, it might go unnoticed how Gabriel’s bright, purple eyes- just for a moment- shift to blood red with thin black slits, how his teeth get a little sharper, how his gaze drills into the men like he can see their very souls— and for most of the watching crowds do miss it. However, the men- and the angels- and the one mighty impressed demon- do not.

All three men leap up from the pavement like it’s burning them (which, to be honest, is not out of the question) and run for the hills. The man with the knife holds Gabriel’s gaze for a second more, before letting out a whimper and sprinting off himself.

Gabriel steps back as the crowd bursts into uproar, screaming and cheering and Gabriel just blinks a little in surprise.

One girl of about eighteen runs up, glitter smeared across her cheeks and a smile splitting her face.   
“Thank you! I don’t know what you did, but oh my god! That was incredible; they’ve been bothering girls all day and making disgusting comments, and just… wow. Wow! Thank you so much!” Her gaze drops to Michael. “And.. and her? Is she alright? Did something happen?”  
Gabriel takes a second to react, but then his face shifts into one of polite surprise and happiness. “It’s no problem. And she’s fine, she’s my sister. This is her first pride, and she got a little… overwhelmed. We were just getting her home.”  
“Oh! That’s great! I’m, I’m really happy for her; that’s amazing! Shall I tell everyone else to leave you to it?”  
“That would be very much appreciated.”

The girl beams again, then turns to answer to a similarly excited girl as Gabriel cuts back through the masses and the others catch up to join them.

“Gabriel, that was…”  
“I didn’t think you had it in you!”  
“That was extremely impressive.”  
“Well done!”

“I think,” says Gabriel, nodding at the comments but ultimately ignoring them, “that it’s about time we got Michael to bed.”  
Crowley looks him up and down, a look of pleasant surprise crossing his face.  
“You know what, Gabe? For the first time in millennia, I think you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may now begin the Rage comments, play nice kids


	7. Falling Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i had my birthday two days ago & i have been Big Busy, which is sad as i would’ve liked to have posted this on the fifteenth. but it is ok because i got a £30 lush voucher and also the love of my life, light of my existence made me an ineffable husbands birthday card. i love u delia lol enjoy he chapter everyone xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Falling burns.

It’s burns Michael’s skin, her clothes, her hair, her wings— oh, her wings— and it burns with a white hot fury that’s trying to convince her it’s home.

This is it, the fire whispers, you are us, this is you, welcome it, sister; embrace the pain- you’ll get used to it. No! She tries to scream, no, please, anything else- anything that isn’t this, please, you’re hurting me! She struggles to break away, to be free, but the flames close around her tighter and suddenly she can’t even breathe. 

This is your fault, the flames hiss, rising in volume and enveloping her in something like a lover’s embrace. You, it’s you, you knew what you were doing and you still chose to Fall, you selfish brat- can’t you ever do anything right? Can’t you listen to Gabriel? Raphael doesn’t want you, heaven hates you and the only place you belong is here in these flames. You deserve to burn, burn, Michael; it had better be hurting you— Michael, oh-

And then the flames convulse and merge into shapes around her, and through the pain and terror she manages to see what they’ve created.

Gabriel’s form is made of the fire, and he crackles and burns before her eyes.  
“Where are you? What’s happening? We’re scared, we’re so worried for you, we can’t find you! Please answer!”  
I’m trying, screams Michael, but the words don’t register with Gabriel. Instead, the fire forming his body shifts and distorts into something else, and Michael lets out a cry of anguish as she sees what they’ve made. Gabriel’s body lies, battered and bleeding on the ground and facing away from her, and Beelzebub’s standing over him with a look of disgusting pride on their face.  
“You did this,” they hiss. “This is on you, you couldn’t help him and now he’s mine, Michael, all mine—“

“Michael,” comes a voice from somewhere above her, muffled as though she’s hearing it through water. “Michael, it’s okay, come back, you don’t have to be going through this...”

Michael thrashes and struggles against the heat- she won’t Fall! She won’t let Beelzebub hurt Gabriel! She won’t… she won’t...  
“You can’t! Just let me go— she wouldn’t! Mother, please, tell them!”  
“It wasss a dream, Mikey, pleassse… I’ve got you, you’re okay…”  
She’s only aware of the tears streaming down her face when she realises that Crowley’s crying, too, shaking as he holds her as tight as he can, closer than a lover and with the affection of a parent.  
“You were sssscreaming, Mikey; I haven’t heard.. not sssince…”

She clings onto him fiercely, gasping for air and sobs ringing louder than they were ever allowed to in heaven.  
“They watch you, all, all the time, there… can’t live, can’t breathe, can’t have an opinion that isn’t The Opinion and- oh, god, Raph- Crowley, what if I’m wrong?”  
“No, no, you’re right, Mikey; lisssten—“  
“You can’t know that! You Fell! You Fell with the others and there was nothing anyone could do because you were gone and we were alone and, oh, fuck, we loved you so much and we couldn’t… you weren’t…”

They rock back and forth together, Michael’s sobs quietening and Crowley’s ragged breathing evening out as the dizzying panic they’d both felt dissipates away into the atmosphere.

“You scared me,” says Crowley softly when all seems to be calm.  
“I’m sorry,” says Michael. “I scared myself.”  
“Don’t apologise… I just… you know. You gave us all a little bit of a fright when you passed out back there at the parade. Are you alright?”  
Michael closes her eyes and tries to adjust back to reality.  
“Yes, I’m fine… got a bit overexcited, I think.”

A gentle silence hangs in the air, like the first loops of a spider’s web or the last snowflakes after a blizzard, and Michael leans her head against Crowley’s shoulder. The room is dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp that’s just bright enough to make it possible for Michael to make out Crowley’s features. It doesn’t occur to either of them to move or speak.

It had been sunny until around noon, when the sunshine and the warmth of a Summer’s day had vanished to give way to gentle showers and then a short burst of rain at three followed by patchy rain again. Now, it’s dark outside but still, and it feels like the universe has stopped just for them.

“How long was I asleep for,” asks Michael quietly.

Crowley hums and drops his head absentmindedly into the dip between her neck and shoulder.  
“No more than two days. I slept for eighty years, once.” Then, he sits up suddenly, a smile creeping over his face. “Hey, you slept for long enough to become a meme! I completely forgot to tell you.”  
“A meme?”  
“Like, a format that people share around on the internet... Here, I’ll show you.” He jumps off the bed, grabs a phone from a side table and then returns to her side with a great creaking of bedsprings. “It might be a bit bright, so maybe let your eyes get used to it first.”

It’s a photograph of her, unconscious in Gabriel’s arms whilst Gabriel looks like he might be about to physically fight a group of dirty looking men. However, someone’s edited the photo to have text over the men saying “canon”, text over Gabriel saying “me”, and text over her saying “my favourite characters”.

“Is that what I looked like when I passed out? And this is getting passed around the internet?”  
“Don’t worry about it, it was quite sweet actually. A lot of people are making edits like this, and there’s an ongoing tumblr post that’s blown up about the actual context of the photo which is a fantastic read, if a bit imaginative. Do you want to see?”

Michael accepts the phone and begins to make her way through the replies. 

‘wait is that at london pride???’  
‘yeah dude apparently there’s a full video out there somewhere where the dude gets reaalllly pissy at that group of homophobes, and someone with really good editing skills made it so that he looks like he’s turned into a demon lol’  
‘[I FOUND IT](https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ)’  
‘fuck you’  
‘i hope seagulls piss on you’  
‘nah but just search “demon at pride yells at homophobes”, it should come up’  
‘NO COPS AT PRIDE JUST A DEMON DAMNING HOMOPHOBES TO HELL’

“This is madness,” accuses Michael.  
“You’re not at the best bit yet,” Crowley promises.  
Michael reads on.

‘wow can u believe satan himself rocked up to pride to protect us’  
‘who is hot ladie i must know it is for Science’  
‘His girlfriend probably. Hey, can everyone just calm down and stop making memes of just two people going to pride? She probably just passed out from the heat and I bet they don’t want the attention.’  
‘who pissed in captain no-fun’s cereal this morning? speak up’  
‘you fools. you utter fools. this is clearly mlm wlw solidarity. she simply came to pride in high heels and her utterly ripped mlm buddy offered to carry her in true idiot solidarity fashion’  
‘why stop there? they are clearly gods from an ancient realm come to watch over pride. the patron saints, if u will’  
‘ALL OF THIS ^^^^^’

Michael catches Crowley’s eye and he sees that her eyes are shining.  
“Even if they are hilariously wrong, they are funny.”  
“Right?”  
There’s another quietly comfortable pause, in which Michael shifts on the bed and passes the phone back to Crowley.  
“Listen, I want to talk.”  
“Really? Are you sure?”  
“...Yeah. Um, I wanted to apologise.”  
“Apologise? For what, I—“

Michael puts her hand on Crowley’s knee, effectively shutting him up.  
“For hurting you. For hurting Aziraphale. For just being, well, a massive dick for thousands of years and almost making the biggest mistake of my life.”

Crowley stays silent.

When Michael speaks, it feels like something she’s been planning quite carefully for a while. Perhaps she has.

“When you left, it was like a veil came down over everything… there was no more dancing, or singing, and if you thought Gabriel was a stickler for rules before? Hah. He’d lost you, Lucifer, Beelzebub, he’d lost half of heaven because consequences were coming for rules that we hadn’t even been taught. Goodness knows how much it meant to those down there, once they’d fallen, but in heaven? We were one step away from dragging you all back up ourselves. And that was when Gabriel started to get really protective, really set in his ways, scared beyond belief that he’d lose more people and honestly? We were in the same boat. We let him do it. We let ourselves get so blind to what was going on that in the end, we’d forgotten there was the option to look in the first place.”

Michael closes her eyes.  
“I got angry. I got so angry, you understand? It felt like betrayal. It felt like there was no point in behaving because there was no reward, no point in having good intentions because they’d gotten me nowhere, and if I was going down— and I could feel myself deteriorating then I wasn't going to just sit pretty and carry on with work until the end.”

She hesitates, and looks at Crowley with the sort of lingering pain that might come from a scar that was stitched up by a three year old.  
“Then… then you and Aziraphale happened. Don’t interrupt, but whatever you two had, well. That went against just about everything, didn’t it? And most importantly, at least for me, it was an excuse. I was so selfish and self-absorbed that I couldn’t see past the fact that you hadn’t spoken to me since you Fell, and now here you were! Breaking the rules and with someone who you hadn’t even met before you Fell, mind you.

“Uriel was too busy pretending not to be so worried about a potential war that she wasn’t going to do anything, and you know Sandalphon- he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Gabriel wasn’t exactly going to have much of an effect even if he wanted to, so I took it upon myself to bring ‘justice’. I knew it wasn’t justice. I knew it wasn’t the kindest, or the most diplomatic thing to do, and I should’ve probably taken a minute to think about what I was doing, but I was the one who suggested to Gabriel that we should bring you and Aziraphale to trial. I was the one who hurt you, not Gabriel. I was the one who was so bitter and spiteful that I had convinced myself that I was doing the right thing. It didn’t feel like anything mattered anymore.”

Somewhere outside, an owl hoots. The bedsheets rustle as Crowley pulls Michael into a hug. 

He holds her until she’s stopped crying, and then a little more, and then they break the hug after what could have been days. It doesn’t matter. They have all the time in the world.  
“I don’t understand,” Michael whispers. She can’t see Crowley’s face through the shadows.  
“I forgive you,” he says, and his voice breaks, and then she’s hugging him and everything simultaneously sucks and feels like they’ve reached the peak of what it means to find peace.

She says sorry, then he says sorry, then she has a full meltdown because he has fuck all to apologise for, and then the clock hits two in the morning and Michael sits back against the pillows, looking sleepy again.

“Could you do me a massive favour?”  
“Anything.”  
“Can you talk to Gabriel and make your peace?”

Almost anything, Crowley thinks.

“Of course,” he says.

***

“What’s wrong,” asks Gabriel as Crowley enters his room. “Is Michael alright? Has she woken up yet?” He looks closer. “What do you have in your hand?”

“Peace offering,” says Crowley, and closes the door behind him. It clicks shut, and Gabriel looks around anxiously.  
“Turn on a light,” he mumbles. Crowley stares at him, hard, then clicks his fingers and suddenly light spills across the room.  
“Oh,” says Gabriel. “I’m not the sharpest tonight.”

Crowley sets down the whisky bottle on a desk, and turns to look at Gabriel over his shoulder.  
“Michael’s awake, but she had a bad dream. I’ve talked her down and now she going back to sleep, but she’s asked me to come and talk to you.”  
“Me? What about?”  
“I don’t know. I figured we’d pour out some shots and figure it out.”  
“Shots?”  
Crowley sighs deeply and performs some complicated prestidigitation in the air and then it’s like the shot glasses have just always been There.  
“Just follow my lead, yeah?”

He tips the bottle and fills two glasses, then steps across the room to hand one to Gabriel.  
“What do you want me to do with this?”  
“Swallow, preferably.”

Gabriel’s actually been a lot better recently vis á vis eating and drinking, and Crowley has complete faith that he’ll at least try Valerie’s angel cake (or there’ll be fucking consequences)— but he’s fairly sure alcohol has never been on the archangel’s agenda before. But, hey, first time for everything.  
“I’ll drink mine, then you can have yours. Yeah?”  
“...Yes.”  
Crowley raises the glass to his lips and puts it back in one, shuddering slightly at the burn on the back of his throat. “Your go.”  
Gabriel hesitates, then scrunches his eyes shut and drinks the whole thing. He gasps at the taste and makes a few peculiar noises before setting down the glass next to him and meeting Crowley’s gaze.

“Now. You wanted to talk?”

They talk, for a little while about nothing, and Crowley recounts most of his conversation with Michael and assures Gabriel that she’s doing well, and then Gabriel voluntarily has another shot which is leaps and bounds and then Crowley goes to refill it to find that Gabriel already has his arm out.  
“Eager?”  
“This’s… mm. ‘S nice to not have’t be so worried… all the time.”  
Of course Gabriel is a lightweight. Crowley shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“What do you want to talk about now?”  
Gabriel exhales loudly and puts his face in a pillow.  
“Dunno. F- I, man. I, I don’ think I say this ‘nough, but, I’m so grateful. T’ you. Like, shiiiiiit. Y’ coulda left, left, us to it, y’know? Never had to open y’r door. Never had to look after us. But y’ did, and, and…” He looks at Crowley, purple eyes large and vulnerable. “Meant so much. ‘S so admirable. I don’ think I coulda done it. Y’r such a good person. ‘S so unfair what happened, y’ didn’t deserve it. Y’know?”

Crowley stares at him.  
“I was gonna go, er, more along the lines of sleepover questions and shit, but this is cool too.”

He sits at the end of the bed and puts his hands in his lap.  
“You get to a point, you know? Where there’s not much point in holding grudges, in being childish, dragging issues out for longer than they need to be dragged and just twatting through life being unlikable for the fuck of it. Maybe I did suck a few centuries ago. Maybe I deserved some of the things that came to me. But I grew up, see? I’m living like I want, with who I want, and no writings are going to change that. I just hope you find that, soon.”

When he looks back, he sees that Gabriel’s crying softly, and without the suit or the combed hair or even the superficial intimidation of heaven behind him, he looks very young and very alone all of a sudden. It breaks Crowley’s heart.  
“Where did we go wrong,” whispers Gabriel, pearly tears sliding down his face. “I don’ understand. I don’ geddit. ‘S not fair.”

Crowley slowly pulls Gabriel’s hand into his own, and Gabriel doesn’t take it back. They sit like that for a while, quiet and unmoving.

“How the fuck did I manage to land myself a babysitting job,” mumbles Crowley eventually with no real malice. Gabriel sniffs.  
“F’r what it’s worth, y’r doing a really good job.”

And then they talk about ducks.

Which is fine, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemon squash is nice as fuck


	8. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: i will create baal, the demon character, for a little pizazz and to illustrate how 99% of demons are delighted with the concept of destroying heaven & having angels at their beck and call
> 
> Everyone in my comments section: wow is this Babie
> 
> Me: wow you are so Right i am going to use him again. thank you my useless gays

Gabriel wakes up with the hangover to end all hangovers, and it takes him a solid thirty seconds to remember where he is.

Except, no he’s not because his bedroom doesn’t gleam like this, and fuck it all there’s no kettle next to a miraculously refilling box of earl grey tea; this is homophobia. (Crowley’s taught him that one. Gabriel uses it with unnecessary amounts of relish, but not around Uriel who gives him a ten minute rant about how it belittles the LGBT community’s struggle— effectively making him feel so guilty that he entirely stops saying it for all of two minutes.)

“Come on, open up the baby blues,” comes a voice from behind him. “Or, purples. Should I say?”  
“Hh,” says Gabriel stupidly. Someone kicks him.  
“Come on! We don’t have all day. Lord Beelzebub doesn’t like waiting.”

Beelzebub?

“Beelzebub?” Gabriel slurs. “Wh’s… Huh?”  
He’s not in hell, he knows that for sure— in fact, he’s almost positive that it’s heaven itself. But Beelzebub? What’s Beelzebub doing here?

The owner of the voice steps over him and comes right up close to his face and Gabriel recognises Dagon with a start.  
“Wh- you? What are you doing here?”  
“I’ve been burning stuff, mainly,” replies Dagon nonchalantly. “Old scriptures and office supplies and so on. You have the world’s biggest and most useless hoarde of sticky notes in gradient colours; I’ve burnt all the way from peacock blue to royal purple and I can’t wait to get started on the rest.”  
“Michael will not be happy,” sighs Gabriel, managing to compose himself. Alright, so this situation isn’t ideal and doesn’t look to be improving much— but Gabriel has self respect and most importantly he’s far too out of it to even think about creating a ruckus. So, he just quietly acquiesces and tries to Think.

Okay.

Okay.

So perhaps he didn’t leave Beelzebub on the best of terms last time, but that was hardly his fault and besides, it’s not like the Lord of Darkness is particularly keen on making friends in the first place. And yet… and yet.

“Did I do something?” Gabrial asks hesitantly. “Are they mad at me?”  
“Fuck do I know, doll; I’m just the staff.”  
Dagon hauls him up, and Gabriel realised that his hands are tied behind his back. When did that happen?  
“Come on, I know you’re an idiot but you can absolutely move faster than this. Did someone drug you before you came?”  
“Whisky,” mumbles Gabriel, beginning to feel very idiotic indeed.  
“Whisky,” echoes Dagon, sounding impressed. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Dagon grabs Gabriel’s arm and whistles, then all of a sudden there’s another demon on Gabriel’s other side. He finds that it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Come on sunshine,” says the other demon cheerfully. Gabriel doesn’t recognise them. “The show must go on, pissed or not.”

The show?

They get Gabriel out into the next room— and why doesn’t he recognise it? Like, even apart from the mayhem and destruction happening left right and centre— it’s just not familiar at all. Is there really this much of a disconnect between him and what’s really going on? He looks to his left as the two demons frogmarch him through the midst of the chaos, and to his amazement sees Hadraniel sitting primly at some hellspawn’s feet, legs crossed at the ankle. Hadraniel, who kicks up a fuss about having to fetch coffee— now sitting at the feet of the Enemy. What the Fuck.

Her eyes widen in shock when she sees Gabriel being all but dragged across the room, and she opens her mouth to presumably shout to him when the demon gives her a swift kick. She closes her mouth and manages to tear her eyes away.

“Gabriel,” comes a voice from the end of the room— hall? It looks more like a hall, like something intended for a King to make speeches in rather than a regular room. Gabriel raises his eyes, and his stomach lurches when he sees the all-too-familiar owner. “Been a little while.”  
“Beelzebub,” he manages. Dagon’s grip tightens on his arm. They’re still moving, but slowly so that everyone can take a good look at him as they go. For the angels, their fallen leader. For the demons, the evidence that they’re finally the ones in charge for once.

When they get about ten feet away from Beelzebub, the demons drop Gabriel at their feet and then step back, heads bowed. Beelzebub smirks and moves closer.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Surely not the proud, strong, independent Gabriel we all know and love. What do you think, angel?” A jeer roses from the crowd around them, some laughing as Beelzebub smiles. Then, the Quartermaster angel stumbles in, startlingly bright blue eyes now dull with dark bags underneath. His movement seems involuntary, like there’s an invisible force in control rather than him. His hands stay behind his back as his gaze drops to Gabriel kneeling on the floor below him.  
“Well? Do you have anything to say to your boss? Any words of comfort? Anything you’ve ever wanted to say to him? Think carefully, now; you don’t know when you’ll see him again.”

Jim doesn’t speak.

He looks away, face unreadable and stance defeated.

“Take him away, he’s no fun.” Beelzebub slouches back. “You, demon—“ he gestures to the demon who helped bring Gabriel forth, “—you say something to him. Pretend to be the angel.”   
The demon looks slightly puzzled, but complies nevertheless. “Er. Oh, oh boy- I sure do hate that my people have fallen and it’s all down to—“  
“Nah, you’re not as annoying. You need to, like, really piss me off.”  
“Should I try again, Lord?”  
“No, leave it for now. Go stand back over there.”

Beelzebub steps forwards, eyes not not shifting from Gabriel.  
“So. You’re finally here, at my feet. After everything. What does it feel like, hm? To feel all the power leave you, to have somebody else in charge, to be completely helpless unless I decide otherwise? I can’t imagine it feel very good. How do you feel, angel? How does it feel? Does it feel like losing? Have you ever experienced loss before?”

They crouch down, hand going to grab Gabriel’s collar to force him to look at them. 

“Losing people… losing people you love. Bet you’ve never had that before, huh? Do you know how much it hurts,” hisses Beelzebub, eyes seeming to burn, “losing so many people? Losing your friends, your family, everyone you’ve ever cared about— and then having them be so close to you, within reaching distance, but never being allowed to touch? Being stuck in the lake, head just above the water, fruit dangling before your nose and drink just below your chin but never being able to have either? I lost you, I was one of you all, do you remember? Do you even care?”

Their fingers tighten around Gabriel’s collar, yet the archangel doesn’t fight against it. Beelzebub finds that their throat hurts so much that he might as well be pressing down on it it with a twenty tonne weight.

“It’s agony,” they continue, “not being able to feel Her any more. Not being able to come back to a family that’s disowned you. What was really keeping us apart, anyway all those years? It wasn’t an invisible barrier. If it was that, Michael could never have come into hell. Crowley and Aziraphale would never have been able to be— whatever they were. We wouldn’t ever have been able to overthrow heaven in the first place. So what was it? We haven’t heard from Her since Eden. I know you haven’t, either. She wasn’t going to stop us, so what was it? What, exactly, was in place to stop us from saying fuck the rules, fuck the system, fuck everything because friendship was worth more than that? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Hell. It wasn’t Her, GABRIEL, so what. Was. It.”

Beelzebub shoves him down and climbs over him, holding him against the floor as everyone watches in stunned silence around them. Nobody’s cheering any more. Gabriel still doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t matter; Beelzebub already has their own answer.

“You did this, like it or not, you created this... all of this. Michael was suicidal, for FUCK’S sake; and where were you?!” A buzz of shocked horror runs through the crowd at this that’s quickly brought to an abrupt halt by Beelzebub’s fist hitting the floor next to Gabriel’s head.  
“You were farting around heaven like the uncaring and oblivious prick that you are, that’s where you were. We knew, all of us, down there. We knew— the ENEMY knew about the mental health of YOUR ANGEL better than you did— how fucking humiliating is that? You should be so ashamed, so guilty, I don’t even know how you sleep at night. How dare you? How DARE YOU?!”

Beelzebub’s desperate, now, and they grab Gabriel’s face in both hands and shake him roughly. “Look at me! You won’t even look at me— you can’t even look me in the eye!” They let go, and Gabriel’s head falls to the floor with a sickening ‘crack’.

“You don’t have to do this,” murmurs Gabriel softly. “You don’t have to go through the motions, I—“

Beelzebub hits him, hard, across the face. It echoes around heaven like a gunshot, and Gabriel’s head falls to one side.   
“Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I can and can’t do, I’m in charge here! This is me! This- all of this- I did this! I’m finally on top, and I did it without you, and now you’re beneath me and you’re trying to talk your way out of it!” They laugh, wildly, eyes darting across his face. “I can’t believe you, I really can’t. You’re not in charge here; I am! And you have to do what I say!”

They hit him again, and this time Gabriel’s nose starts to bleed. 

“Well?” Beelzebub demands. “What do you have to say for yourself?”  
“I forgive you,” Gabriel whispers, and Beelzebub sees with a start of horror that he’s crying of all things. Crying!   
“You… you? You forgive— forgive ME!?” Beelzebub spits, like they can’t believe the audacity of it all. Gabriel stays quiet.

Then Beelzebub hits him again, because they don’t know what else to do, and then again, and again, and they scratch and claw and punch as their heart hammers in their chest and the adrenaline coarses through their system and the archangel just lays and takes it all like Beelzebub’s nothing more than a petulant child screaming for sweets. Blow after blow, until with one final strike underneath the chin, Gabriel’s head finally falls limp like a rag doll that a small child’s tired of playing with.

Beelzebub exhales with a breath that trembles in the air like the last bittersweet note of a song intended for lovers that died long ago. They stand up.

Beneath them, Gabriel lays unconscious like a child slumbering in the wake of a particularly rambunctious birthday party coming down from an adrenaline and likely sugar rush. He’s got a pretty face underneath all the damage, and his hair usually looks a lot nicer and neater when it’s not matted red and sticky and plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and blood. Beelzebub’s fists drop to their sides, shaking violently in a way that they haven’t since the Fall.  
“G... ghh... fu, fuck...”  
Silence rings around heaven with a dull toll that deafens. Nobody dares breathe.  
“Gabriel,” whispers Beelzebub. “Gabe, G... God... Gabriel, I didn’t...”

On Gabriel’s face, two little streams of blood coalesce and slide to the floor. As the first drop of an angel’s blood hits the ground, Beelzebub half expects a great booming voice to break through the ceiling and shake the walls around them with a force and fury that the most radical and devoted believers couldn’t picture in their wildest dreams, but... nothing happens. No light comes to beam him up. No loving hands made from light encircle him, nothing. Nothing. 

...Nothing.

“Gabriel,” repeats Beelzebub, voice breaking. “Please. Please, I can’t...”  
In the crowd of petrified spectators, somebody chokes on a sob. Then, all the dams burst and Beelzebub screams, screams for the hopelessness of life, for the unneeded violence and pain, for the loss of so many that could have been avoided, for the cruel negligence of a mother who shouldn’t have had children and the great stinging realisation that there’s no one there to catch you when you fall.

They scream, and they scream, and they cry bitter tears onto a broken archangel’s chest as the whole of heaven and hell watches on and it begins to sink in for everyone that nobody, really, knows Loss quite as well as they’d thought.

***

Somewhere in a demon’s flat, the kettle boils.

“Do you want me to get a hot chocolate, angel?” Crowley asks nervously, looking anywhere but Aziraphale.  
“I’ve decided I no longer like hot chocolate,” announces Aziraphale, blatantly getting up to make himself one. “I just decided I Would Not tell you. Sucks, doesn’t it?”  
“Please talk to me,” Crowley begs.  
“I am now blessing the plumbing, good luck using your new bath bomb later.”  
“PLEASE talk to me.”

Aziraphale ignores Crowley, and sets about spooning far too much hot chocolate mix into a mug.  
“Not to be crude, my dear, but you MADE THE STARS and now you’re busying yourself on earth hooking up with— I don’t know— who have you hooked up with in the last hundred years? It doesn’t matter,” he continues before Crowley can tell him ‘no one’, “it just doesn’t matter, Anthony, because you’ve lied to me and that’s really upsetting.”

Crowley thinks he might have to claw out his own eyes.

“Look; there was never a right time! I could hardly tell you before the Arrangement, and then during the Arrangement— well, I didn’t want it to feel like I was trying to be superior or some shite— and what was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, hey Aziraphale, by the way, I MADE alpha centauri- and helped Her with the creation of humans- and I used to braid Michael’s hair whilst Uriel casually blackmailed Gabriel into making a constellation in the shape of an eagle’? When would I have even brought it up?”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley, open mouthed as his mug quietly overflows, spilling hot water onto the kitchen floor.  
“Wh- huh?”  
“What? Which bit?”  
Aziraphale blinks and continues staring. “You are fucking shocking.”

Crowley trips over nothing and falls onto the ground, where he stays for no less than twenty seconds until he feels another presence beside him.   
“Get up, my dear.”  
“Everything is difficult and stressful and I want to put my head in an oven.”  
“Again with the head in the oven?”  
“Again with the head in the oven.”  
“Why the oven?”  
“That’s where the bread is.”  
“You’re just being silly now.”

Aziraphale straightens up and Crowley smushes his nose into the floor. 

“Listen, dear, I’m upset that you lied to me but I don’t think this is anything that we can’t talk through.”  
Crowley doesn’t even bother to point out that that’s exactly what he was saying two minutes ago.   
“Hgfs,” he says uselessly. And then, “I didn’t really lie to you. Just. Sorta. Avoided any questions about it. You’ve never asked me what my favourite colour is; just because never told you doesn’t mean I’ve lied about it.”  
There’s a pause.

“Well, what’s your favourite colour?”  
Crowley raises his head.  
“Black.”  
“Really?”  
“No. Now, that was me lying. See the difference?”

Aziraphale’s barely opened his mouth to accuse Crowley of being an obnoxious bastard when the door creaks open and Michael shuffles in. Neither of them miss how her hands are shaking.

“There’s something wrong,” she whispers. “There’s something, I, I don’t know, but there’s something terribly wrong. Have either of you seen Gabriel?”

Over Aziraphale’s head, a fly buzzes against the window, like it's trying to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive really hurt my own feelings so if i could get some nice feedback id be very happy thank you


	9. Perfectly Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it good? no!!
> 
> is it done? yes!!
> 
> all joking aside, I’m very sorry this chapter couldn’t have done sooner but schools just restarted and Exams and so on and so forth and with any luck I’ll have this finally done before next decade
> 
> cheers if you’ve stuck around, cheers if you’ve commented, keep it up for the last two chapters and you’ll make a twat called olly in the north of England very happy indeed xx

Gabriel’s hands clench, then unclench, then he huffs and tries to peer back over his shoulder at the demon sitting on a beanbag behind him.

“Please untie me.”

The demon hums and puts a Pringle in his mouth.  
“Listen, man, this isn’t my authority. I’m just here making sure you don’t escape, on Be— er. The Lord’s orders.”  
He’s not looking at Gabriel, eyes determinately focused on the Pringles tube in his hand. He doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge that anything’s gone down that’s out of the ordinary.

Gabriel frowns, tries to move, and finds that it hurts.  
“Listen— um, what’s your name?”  
“Baal, but you can call me baby.”  
“Right. Baby, in that case, you know this isn’t right. Right?”  
“R- no! Um, wrong. Wroooong. So, like SO wrong, dude, I think you’re just a bit biased? You’re the one. Tied up ‘n shit. I don’t imagine that’s a fun gig. Or like, maybe you’re into that. I know, I mean, not me— but I know people—“

He shifts, seeming wildly uncomfortable. Gabriel looks at him closer. 

He doesn’t actually recognise him, but he’s familiar in an achingly nostalgic way that makes Gabriel think he must have known him vaguely in the old days. Baal- (baby?)- wears a polo shirt with the collar popped and he’s got a can of Monster by his feet. He’s attractive, sure, but in a one-night-stand sorta way; not in a would-take-home-to-mommy way. He’s the kind of guy you might let tie you up, and he visibly carries that knowledge like the banner of pride that it is. (Picture a 2012 fuckboy trying very, very hard to convince everyone that he’s not bi. There you are. You’ve got it. Keep it up.)

“I’m going to be honest with you,” begins Gabriel carefully. “I don’t really know what’s going on here, and I’ll wager that you know slightly more than me. Could you, um, at least give me a hint? You seem so clever, and—“  
That’s done it. Baal puffs out his chest like a bird in mating season spotting a particularly attractive goldfinch and even goes so far as to set down the Pringles tube by his feet.  
“I mean! I don’t know that much, but like, I do pick up on small talk and shit, hahahaha, and!! Cos I’ve been sent to guard, and everyone else has twatted off to London and they’re gonna fuck shit up or something, and. Yeah. I’m here! It’s a big responsibility and I used to be a king of hell but it wasn’t working with my aesthetic so—“  
“London?”

Baal freezes.  
“Uh. Did I say London?”  
“I think you did.”  
“I meant, fuckin, uhh, Plumbland. It’s near the Lake District; lovely place in the Summer, would totally recommend—“

But Gabriel’s already struggling fruitlessly against his bonds, desperately trying to escape.  
“That means they’re looking for the archangels and Crowley! They’re going to— well, I don’t know what they’re going to do! But it won’t be good.”  
“Uh. Yikes.” Baal Sweats. He looks at his wrist, where there is No Watch, and upon realising this, tries to act like he was just adjusting his posture. His posture is, tellingly enough, like that of any edgy teen on Dr Phil or anyone with ADHD left to their own devices for more than three seconds.

Baal just kind of watches Gabriel struggle, mouth slightly ajar and brow slightly creased. He stays like this for maybe a minute before he speaks again.

“Um. Out of curiosity, and like, stuff. What would your reaction be if I told you that I overheard Dagon talking about something called ‘Trafalgar Square’ and, uh, blowing it up and suchlike.”  
Gabriel stops wriggling and stays perfectly still, purple eyes unreadable and drilling into the demon with burning intensity. Baal resists the urge to comment on the fact that it’s moderately hot.  
“I would say that, if you value any sort of morals or if you value your nose the way it is, you should let me go right now.”  
“Uh huh… Cool.”

There’s a long silence, in which the demon appears to be struggling somewhat with himself. Then, Baal’s face takes on a devilish look.  
“Hey. Heyyy. They couldn’t really, actually complain if I was still keeping an eye on you. Could they?”  
“They probably could.”  
Baal waves this off. “Small print.”

The demon leans forwards. 

“On one condition.”  
Gabriel Sweats, then, “Anything.”

***

“Fuck this, fuck everything, fuck my life, ESPECIALLY fuck hell, fuck, fuck. FUCK. Fuck this microwave in particular, fuck this tin of anchovies from 2007, fuck Hastur, fuck the fucking fuck that had this stupid fucking plan, fuck—!”

“He’s still going,” remarks Uriel insouciantly from the doorway. Aziraphale has his face against the wall, and doesn’t look to be moving anytime soon.  
“I may discorperate.”  
But Uriel’s having absolutely none of Aziraphale’s shit today. She glares at him glarily. “Then what would happen? Who would assign you a new corporation? It certainly wouldn’t be Michael,” Uriel gestures to the pale angel underneath about sixteen blankets at the orders of Sandalphon, “and by the looks of it, Heaven is currently infested with demons.”  
“Won’t be soon,” mumbles Michael.  
“Won’t be soon,” agrees Uriel reluctantly.

“FUCK sodding earl grey, fuck having a job, fuck having to have FUCKING emotions, I want to get FUCKED and then SLEEP,”  
“I hope Gabriel’s okay,” utters Sandalphon anxiously. Michael buries herself further in the nest of blankets.

“Yes, Sandalphon, that’ll be all from you,” says Uriel in clipped tones. “Thank you. Mich- she… hm. He’s, no. Just, no.”

“FUCK Uriel’s fucking nonchalant INSULTS, Sandalphon is TRYING HIS BEST, I want to break both my legs and put myself into the ocean,”

Uriel scowls.

“Crowley.”  
“FUCK cranberry cheese lives,”  
“Crowley…”  
“FUCK goats’ freakish little horrible monster eyes,”  
“CROWLEY.”  
“URIEL.”  
“Calm the FUCK down.”

Crowley faceplants onto the table. He is quiet. Then,  
“...Fuck.”

Uriel turns away from him contemptuously like she just can’t deal with that Situation any more.   
“Michael, did you say Trafalgar Square?”  
“Mm. ‘S what it sounded like.” She blanches and her head disappears under the blankets again. Uriel puts a hand over her face.  
“Cool! Great! Amazing! Does no one else here know how to be an adult for, oh, I don’t know, five minutes?”  
It’s then that Crowley chooses to glance out the window, give a soft whimper and mumble “fuck,” very quietly.

Slowly but surely, everyone follows his lead.

“Fuck,” agrees Uriel.

***

Olivia Carter-Moore, up until that afternoon, thought she had seen pretty much everything the world had to offer her.

An art degree at a good university in London? Yes please; she’ll have that and then make a half decent living working on graphic novels until she can move back up North to live with her parents in Plumbland. Friends come and go, there’d been that one incident where her best friend came very close to kicking a professor’s teeth in, and that had been about the limit of her adventures since coming here. She’d also recently acquired a cat called Legs, and realised that she was aro, and had just bought a chicken and bacon sandwich from co-op so life was running about as smoothly as it could be for her.

It’s actually only when she’s about to take her first bite of the sandwich when things begin to change.

(As far as changes go, this is a pretty big one.)

Because that’s when the sky opens up above her and lightning hits Nelson’s Column with a terrific ‘CRASH’ and a dark silhouette morphs into existence where it strikes. If that’s not bad enough, four identical bolts of lightning simultaneously strike on each of the lion statues, and, when the dust clears, there sits a figure atop each one— all looking like they’ve seen every war there is to be had and with full intention of starting another. 

Again and again, lightning crashes down all around the square as people scream and try to run, terrified and with no idea where the next bolt will hit. Olivia stays, stock still, watching in a kind of fascinated horror as chaos unfolds around her, wondering vaguely whether or not she should phone her dad to tell him she loved him and where he could find her year six diary when someone grabs her shoulder and she swears, loudly.

“Hey! Calm down; I’m not gonna hurt you. They might, I won’t.”  
“Cool! I don’t feel better at all!”  
“Yeah, uh huh, that makes two of us. Hold this, will you?”

The stranger is tall and pale and actually, looking at him properly, might not usually be so pale (perhaps it’s the circumstances) and has flaming red hair unlike anything she’s seen before. Perhaps in his forties somewhere, perhaps not, perhaps none of it matters because he’s handing her a sword, that is in fact on fire.  
“Your sword’s on fire,” she points out while her brain cells exit stage left out the window apparently.  
“It does that,” says the stranger. “I need to run somewhere; if anyone asks you’re in league with Aziraphale. If they think that’s a bad thing, chop bits off them until they don’t think that anymore.”  
“I just wanted my sandwich,” says Olivia sadly as the stranger legs it away, leaving her with the blazing sword and quite a few questions.

In front of her, the chaos seems to be progressing very smoothly if that’s the word she wants, with what looks very much like a renaissance painting unfolding before her eyes. Everywhere one looks, carnage. Exploding statues, alarmed pigeons, winged creatures decked out in war memorabilia and, standing in clusters all around, people she could only describe as looking like if smarmy CEO type people were just put in a warzone and instructed to get on with it. Confused, worried and trying to avoid flying objects.

Well, perhaps ‘people’ is not the word she wants.

She’s just transgressing off on that train of thought when one of them sidles up to her, eyes fixed on the sword.

“Is this yours?”  
“What are you, a cop?”  
The Thing narrows its eyes at her remark.  
“Whose side.”  
“Aziraphale’s?”  
“Oh.”

Olivia doesn’t have a clue what to say. Their answer doesn’t seem positive or negative, and what if Aziraphale isn’t even the good guy? The Thing seems to just brush this aside, and leans in urgently.

“Listen, they’ve got Gabriel, I don’t know how but he’s been wounded and— do you know where any of the other archangels are?”  
Olivia beams frantically, trying to find words and realising she has none. No, of course she doesn’t know where the archangels are, she barely knows where her keys are, but her instinctive need to please others isn’t letting her admit it.  
“They’re coming,” she croaks, and prays that they are.  
“Good… good. Listen, if you can take down Beelzebub I’m sure this’ll all end; they didn’t want to kill anyone, they’re like a kid with control of an army, they only hurt Gabriel because they didn’t know—“  
“What’s your favourite colour,” says Olivia desperately.

Fortunately, it’s then that a distraction presents itself.

Unfortunately, it comes in the form of some horrible four-horned, eight-eyed creature with a surplus of rather sharp teeth splitting open the ground and cheering as a pigeon stupidly trots right into it.

“Hey! You, over there! What’re you doing?” The creature shouts, suddenly Much Bigger and a fuckton scarier. Olivia tries to remember her undertale training, and Stalls For Time. As the potentially-good-guy opens its mouth, Olivia slowly lowers the sword and smiles an award-winning smile right at the creature. (It looks confused. Perhaps it doesn’t take a lot.)  
“Here, now; what’s all this fuss? I’m just having my sandwich, see?”  
The creature stares stupidly.  
“What?”  
“I’m having my lunch. Chicken and b—“

“Ah, I was warned a regular citizen would be handling the sword. Please give it here; I don’t know what Crowley was thinking.” Another ‘person’ marches up to poor Olivia and holds out their hand.  
“Er, who are you?”  
“An archangel. I’m Uriel; I’ll be taking this from here because I’m the only one who knows what’s going on. Hadraniel, you may join us along with your friends. Allow me to take care of this demon.”

The presumably demon, before it can object, suddenly finds that it’s become a vaguely demon-shaped statue of bubbles. The bubbles pop serenely as they float through the air. Uriel turns back to a shocked Olivia.  
“Sword, if you don’t mind.”

She hands her the sword.

There isn’t a lot else to do.

Hadraniel, the possible angel candidate, hops over to Uriel’s side gratefully. Uriel surveys Trafalgar Square gravely.  
“We’ll need a miracle to get us out of this one, alright.”

And that’s when Olivia becomes certain, once and for all, that she is indeed having a fucking stroke.

Because what else should happen but the skies break apart once again, a la chicken little, and Tainted Love starts blasting out of, seemingly, everywhere and nowhere— and, down from the heavens like a falling angel, comes a falling angel. (Well, perhaps not falling so much as gliding.) They seem attractive from a distance, and probably would be even more attractive were it not for the copious bruising and dried blood on its face. (They’re strangely familiar in a way Olivia can’t quite put her finger on.) Behind the angel (because it must be an angel; it has wings for fucks sake), follows a vaguely angel shaped silhouette, slinking along guiltily in the background and clutching what may just be an iced coffee. It waves awkwardly.

Uriel Stares.  
“Who on earth is that? Wh- song? Why this song?”  
“Baal,” Hadraniel and the demon deadpan in unison. “That sounds about Baal.”

“Do not be afraid,” comes a booming voice, and suddenly Olivia finds that everything is All Too Bright and she needs to close her eyes.  
“Fuck off,” she mumbles miserably. 

“Do not be afraid,” reiterates the voice, a little less confident, as it finds that every moderately human presenting being looks to be Very Afraid Indeed.  
“I am Gabriel, or Jibril, depending on religion and so on and so forth, the, er, head archangel of heaven- or, or something like that, and- just…”  
“We’d rather like the fighting business to be jacked in,” interrupts (possibly) Baal helpfully. “We know you’re all very occupied being spiteful and childish but, my dudes, the thing is—“

“We don't need a war,” says Gabriel, sounding weaker. “We don’t, we just don’t; there’s nobody saying we do except yourselves, there’s no point in fighting on because it’ll achieve nothing. God isn’t going to intervene. There’s no big shining light to tell you where you’re going wrong, not anymore, and if you have anything about you then you’ll— you’ll… you’ll put down…”

The light fades, and somebody cries, “Gabriel!”, and there’s running footsteps and Olivia opens her eyes at last.

There’s a group forming somewhere near a fountain, like a group of kids in the playground when two ten year old girls who like the same boy have opted to circle each other for ten minutes doing fuck all else, and Olivia instantly finds herself drawn to it.

It’s not difficult to elbow her way through the throng even when she knows what she’ll see, and when she finds herself at the centre her heart skips a beat.   
“Is… is he dying?”  
He’s certainly bleeding alright, and he’s breathing in short shallow bursts that sound like they’ve been ripped from the back of his throat. He doesn’t look dead yet, but he definitely doesn’t look well.  
“I don’t know,” says a pale potentially-angel, almond eyes wide and frantic looking. “Oh, oh God I don’t know…”

“Let me through, please,” comes another voice, and this time it’s a shorter potentially-angel with curly blond hair and a snazzy bow tie. He appears astonishingly calm despite the circumstances, and when he sees Olivia looking nervous with half a sandwich still clutched in one hand he grinds to a standstill.  
“Poor girl. I’m sorry Crowley got you involved, he’s really very inconsiderate sometimes.”  
“It’s no problem,” says Olivia, who has just been exposed to so much unexplainable insanity that she’s quite sure she’s lost her grip on reality. The man smiles sympathetically.

“It’s alright, dear, it’s all going to be quite alright.”  
“And Gabriel? Is he? What?”

The man chances a look back at the man on the ground.

“The fighting seems to have stopped. I think he’s achieved what he wanted to, even if it wasn’t in the amazing, heroic way he imagined. And, yes, he’ll be alright too. Nothing some warm cocoa and angel cake can’t fix.”  
He straightens out his jacket.  
“Now, my dear, if you wouldn’t mind looking straight at me.”  
Olivia does as she’s told.   
“In a few moments, you are going to wake up in the place you like most from a dream about the thing you like most in the world. Is that alright?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t answer, because that’s when she finds herself inexplicably in the warmest, most inviting bed she’s ever had the privilege to sleep in back at her parents’ house, and the sun splits the curtains as all is in fact, perfectly alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally I don’t think I’ve ever been less proud of a chapter but it’s here!!!! And the plot is fairly spot on!! Even if the writing isn’t!!! Here’s hoping last chapter will exceed expectations xx


	10. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooooooo it’s finally done!!! i’m sorry it took Forever and Always but like,,,,,, it’s done lmao. thank and welcome xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the aftermath, there’s a lot of laying down to be had.

Gabriel lays down, in his guest room made all Special, Specially for him— and Michael lays down next to him when sitting in a hard wooden chair chewing at her thumbnail simply isn’t cutting it any more.

Uriel fixes Trafalgar Square, because somebody has to, and then she lays down in her own room for a week without speaking to anybody.

Aziraphale lays down on the sofa, and Crowley fetches him cake periodically. Sandalphon sometimes takes over when Crowley needs Allotted Crowley Time, and so all runs about as smoothly as the comedown from the brink of a war really can. 

The world, collectively, seems to rest. 

It is the seventh day when Valerie Smales comes knocking.

Crowley answers the door, because she’s the only blissfully familiar anchor to reality that remains still, and because he would feel bad for three centuries if he didn’t answer the door.  
“Hello, Val,” he says, and then reasses. “Hello Val and the small one.”  
“This is my grandson, Edward,” says Val. “You do remember me telling you about him?”  
“How could I forget,” says Crowley, who barely even remembers his own name after the proceedings of the last few days. “Would you both like to come in?”

Crowley has never actually seen Edward before. 

He’s short, blonde and has the sort of serious and set face one would expect from a lawyer or a bank manager rather than from a nine year old boy, but people are people and Crowley is damned if he hasn’t met far stranger people than a kid who doesn’t like loud noises. Who does?

“You wear glasses indoors,” announces Edward casually as he wanders into the living room. “And you’ve got a man sleeping on your sofa.”  
“Both factually correct,” says Crowley. “Would you like anything to eat?”  
“Carrots,” says Edward.  
“Edward,” says Valerie in a warning tone of voice.  
“Sorry.” Edward corrects himself. “Carrots, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Valerie tells Crowley as they walk through into the kitchen. “He can be a little insensitive. I’m sure you understand— Gabe? And all that?”  
“What? Oh, yes,” mumbles Crowley. “That man couldn’t understand social norms if they gave him a lap dance.” He produces carrot sticks, already nearly cut and plated from the fridge and Valerie beams.  
“It’s like you knew he was coming!”  
“It is, rather,” agrees Crowley, who loves his sleep and has not managed to get a singular fucking wink for what feels like decades. He’s beginning to lose touch with reality. Valerie puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Poor boy, you seem a little out of it. I can come back another time?”  
“No, no,” says Crowley, getting a grip on himself. “No, this is good. Don’t you worry yourself about it.” And, as they’re walking back through, “why did you come, anyway?”

“Oh, I came to see if Mr Reole wanted to meet Edward. I think, well- I think he might be able to have a conversation with him about, er, coping strategies and getting through school and work and social situations and so on. I know Edward is having a difficult time at school and soon enough he’ll be in secondary and- well- I just worry about him. I thought it might be a good idea if he could have a chat with someone older who has been through the same things. They could connect!”

“They could,” agrees Crowley. “I’ll find Gabr- uh, Gabe. For you.”  
“Thank you so much,” says Valerie, and means it.

Carrot sticks are distributed, and Crowley makes Valerie go and Wait In the Living Room while he edges into Gabriel’s room and Steps Over Michael and taps him gently on the arm. He stirs, but only a little. Crowley’s heart drops to see that his eye is still black and there’s a scar healing on his cheek.  
“Gabriel,” he whispers. “Gabriel, there’s Valerie here; Valerie and her grandson. Do you think you could come and see him? For her sake?”  
Gabriel’s unbruised eye cracks open a fraction and he coughs weakly.  
“W- um. I, how long?”

Crowley feels like utter shit.

“You can tell me when it’s too much. I won’t keep you there. I wouldn’t do that.” His eyes fall to Michael, sleeping peacefully on the chair.  
“I’ll leave a note for Mikey. She’ll understand.”

And then Gabriel is tentatively handed a mirror, and remarks that it would be a miracle if his eye would clear up in time for him to see Valerie and Edward, and it’s some small relief that the angel still has enough common sense about him that he isn’t going to accidentally traumatise a young boy. They make it downstairs just as Edward is surgically biting the carrot sticks into equal sizes because it “makes him feel like he’s being fair”, and then Crowley has to go through the ordeal that is watching Valerie experience every human emotion in the space of five seconds as she spots Gabriel.

“Oh my goodness,” she says faintly to Crowley. “Is he alright?”  
Crowley, two seconds away from having a breakdown, replies unthinkingly with, “Yeah, he just walked out into the road,” like that will put her at ease. Rather predictably, Valerie’s expression turns from concerned to Panicked.  
“Well that’s terrible! I hope you’re suing someone!”  
“Mm,” says Crowley, who has commited to a lie too soon. “Drove away. Didn’t get the numberplate.”

Unfortunately, this causes Valerie to launch into a rant on a lack of proper road etiquette and, ‘how the common driver has no sense of a moral compass’, and Crowley tunes out as he watches Gabriel interact with Edward.

They even look similar, in the sense that both are far too dressed up for what they’re actually doing and they both look like they’d be filing documents if given the option, but serious grey eyes connect with serious purple, and there seems to be a moment of understanding. Then, Gabriel sits down on the carpet, points at Edward’s Lego spaceship that he’s carefully set up and asks something that Crowley Cannot Hear because Valerie is still having kittens over Gabriel’s slight limp. Edward’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes shine for a moment and then he plonks himself down opposite Gabriel and digs out something that could be an instruction manual. Crowley smiles and turns back to Valerie.

“Yes, we’re all very worried about him but he’s getting better every day. Did you mention something about an angel cake?”  
“Oh, I completely forgot!” Valerie laments. “It’s just through in the kitchen; I’ll grab it for you.”  
“Cheers,” says Crowley, and turns back to watch Gabriel and Edward discuss something mind-numbingly boring but which is probably nothing short of thrilling to them. 

Gabriel, who famously has never taken an interest in something he himself isn’t bothered about, is listening to intently to this nine year old boy explain how he made the first layer of the spaceship that Crowley is inclined to believe there’ll be an exam on it later. And, as every good listener should, he throws in intermittent questions on the stability of such structures and how far it could realistically fly in X conditions with X amount of hypothetical fuel.

And Edward looks ecstatic.

“Your grandson seems happy,” he comments to Valerie as she re-enters the room with angel cake in hand.  
“He does, rather,” beams Valerie. “I was worried I’d need to give them conversation prompters, but they do look like they’re having a good time.”

She’s right.

And the best part of it all is, Crowley doesn’t even have to force Gabriel to eat the angel cake. He does it himself, all on his own, and even comments on it to Valerie who looks like she may cry. (It takes thirty minutes to pull Edward away from Gabriel, in which both Valerie and Crowley promise to notify him if Gabriel is ever in town again.)

“So all’s well that ends well,” declares Crowley much later, laying with his head resting on Aziraphale’s legs. “Are you still mad at me?”  
“No, I’m not mad,” says Aziraphale. “I’m- well. I had some time to think.”  
“Oh?”   
“Yes. And I thought, well, perhaps I should be easier on you. And, er, actually. I thought, um, that is…”  
“Spit it out, angel. What, do you have a crush on me or something you big ner— mfgh.”

(As it turns out, Aziraphale does have a “””””crush”””” on Crowley. The definition ‘crush’, is a very loose definition for what is essentially a 6,000 year long process of one angel removing his head from where it had been perpetually rammed up his own arse and sorting out his feeling for one demon. Angels are, after all, traditionally beings of love and Aziraphale is just a bit late to the party.)

When Aziraphale stops kissing Crowley, there are a blissful ten seconds in which neither can quite find it within himself to speak.

“Nice,” says Crowley, the madlad, the legend, the romantic genius that he is.  
“Nice indeed,” says Aziraphale. “Can I do that again?”  
“Only because you asked so nicely,” says Crowley, and then, “mfgh,” again.

The novelty of being loved is truly something else. Crowley thinks he may be drunk on it for a decade or twenty.

One week later, he says goodbye.

“Play nicely,” says Uriel, and kisses him chastely on the forehead.  
“Don’t get drunk without me,” says Aziraphale, and kisses him not at all chastely on the mouth and then some.  
“Mfgh,” says Crowley, for a third time.  
“Gross,” remarks Gabriel who still doesn’t quite understand that part of human experience at the moment.  
“Stop assaulting the poor boy,” chastises Sandalphon, and Michael dutifully stays out of all proceedings as one should.

“It won’t be the same without you,” Crowley mumbles, hating that he means it.  
“Yes, well. There are heavens that need tidying,” reasons Uriel.  
“Seven of them,” agrees Aziraphale.

And then, a good amount of duologuing happens.

There are some questions which you as the reader may want answered, and as neither I nor you want to hear any more duologuing, I will take the liberty to answer them myself.

What happened to Beelzebub?

They are thinking about their actions. Of course, actions like those will take a good few centuries to think over and it’s lucky that Beelzebub has all the time in the world. Over the next few years, they will make a conscious effort to sit down with Uriel and Discuss- and luckily Uriel would rather die than tell Gabriel about the talks- and they are getting better. Slowly. The fire is out in heaven. Sticky notes have miraculously reappeared.

Is Michael okay?

The short answer is that she will be. The long answer involves much more in depth detail vis à vis long sessions of talking and drinking Prosecco with Baal, and far more slow recovery, and it’d be much appreciated if you’d just accept the former sentence as gospel.

Baal?

Recently invented e-boys. We wish him the best of luck.

And so, our story draws to a close. And we find Crowley and Aziraphale back at Crowley’s flat, drinking Fancy Vino, and leaving a comfortable silence hanging in the air in the sort of way that bricks don’t. Aziraphale holds his glass delicately, every so often tilting it a little so that the wine in it swishes around like waves turning over in the ocean.

Eventually, he speaks. 

“To think, my dear, that there were so many points where the universe could’ve tilted slightly to the left and I’d have had you. Long, long before now.”

“We came close,” agrees Crowley. “Very close. Mad, that.”  
“You’re quite right. Incredible, really; to think that you could’ve accepted those oysters in Rome, and we could’ve, well… you know. It could’ve been, far sooner before now. To think that you could’ve kissed me on that wall, all the way back in Eden, and I’d have followed you to the ends of the freshly born earth right from the beginning of it all.”  
“I couldn’t have, really,” murmurs Crowley. “That one, that one wouldn’t have worked. You’d have smited me where I stood.”  
“Perhaps you’d be surprised.”

Aziraphale downs his glass, and then he turns his head to Crowley.

“Ah, to think. And only if we had. Do you think this is all part of the Great Plan? Do you think that there is a Great Plan after all?”  
“Shit plan if you ask me,” says Crowley. “But life does go on, I suppose.”  
“We could’ve brushed up against each other in the making of it all, you know,” continues Aziraphale like Crowley didn’t even speak. “Two stars hurtling past each other in infinite darkness but in opposite directions.”  
“We couldn’t. I made them, remember?”  
“You know what I mean.”

There’s another silence. This time, it feels loaded with something.

“And you don’t mind?” Crowley blurts out. “You don’t mind that I lied?”  
“Only moderately,” sighs Aziraphale. “I think I’d love you no matter what.”

A pause, and then,

“Me too,” mutters Crowley.

And then Aziraphale leans off the couch, and kisses Crowley again, and Crowley thinks he could live in the feeling that it gives him. Then Crowley asks if it’s too late to ask for a quickie on his desk, and Aziraphale smacks him with a throw cushion and so all is as it should be.

There is much rest to be had in the aftermath, and sometimes that means an angel and a demon sinning so hard that Moses cries blood. 

And that’s okay too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all y’all utter madlad for sticking with me through all this mess, i wuv u and appreciate u. let me know if you want more GO fanfics because i def have some in mind but is the fandom dying?? i have no concept of Anything. anyways wuv u go follow me on tumblr. night babes x

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments and kudos because I am Desperate to write more but i am babie and if i don’t get support ill crumble & die no pressure
> 
> [my main tumblr blog!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ollyoctopus)


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